JANUARY  AND  JUNE: 


BY 

BENJ.    F.   TAYLOR. 


Zlluatratelr. 


NEW-YORK: 

SAMUEL  HUESTON,  139  NASSAU  STREET. 

1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851. 

SAMUEL  HUESTON. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  State 
Southern  District  of  New-York, 


JOHN  A.  GRAY, 
BTEREOTrPER  AND  PRINTER, 

95  &  67  CLIFF  STREET. 


T  O 

F.    <T«ii>lor,    2.  2L  .  D  . , 

PRESIDENT    OF   MADISON    UNIVERSITY, 

WHO  HAS  PASSED  A  LIFE,    'LOOKING    NATURE   IN    THE    FACE, 

AND  INTERPRETING  HER  EXPRESSION,  THIS  LITTLE 

VOLUME  13  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


A  LITTLE  Preface  to  a  little  Book  is  a  jewel :  so 
these  random  sketches  are  not  portionless. 

Some  body  has  declared  that '  water  runneth  by 
the  Mill,  the  Miller  wots  not  of;'  and,  for  proof  there 
of,  lo !  here  a  little,  caught  in  the  hollow  of  one's 
hand.  Not  enough,  indeed,  to  turn  a  wheel,  but  to 
quench,  may-be,  a  rose's  or  a  robin's  thirst ;  to  bap 
tize  an  infant  love  of  Nature  ;  to  sparkle  in  dews,  on 
opening  leaves  of  Thought. 

Hark !  says  the  mother,  as  she  soothes  the  restless 
child.  Now,  Nature  is  the  mother,  and  I — the 
child. 


C0  n  1 1  n  t  s. 

JFCrst  $art. 

PAO« 

Life 12 

A  Mystery 15 

Pumpkins  and  Enterprise 17 

Death 18 

'Our  Polka' 22 

Jewelry 30 

Finished 34 

'  Bugs'  and  Beauties 37 

Ploughshares  and  Sorrows 41 

Our  Defences 44 

Digging  for  a  '  Subject' 50 

Railway  Magic 67 

Fourth  of  July 64 

It  Rains 69 

'  Movements' 76 

Hendom 84 

Chicken  Pie..,  91 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

FAQ* 

Happiness  '  at  Cost* 95 

Aerial  Rehearsal 9*7 

Domestic  Enchantment 100 

An  Unscientific  Chat  about  Music 104 

The  Wind  and  the  Night 115 

'The  Stage  is  Coming' 124 

A  Summer  Day  in  Haying 127 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer 139 


Scconir  -{tort. 

Fall 143 

Indian  Summer 148 

'And  Such  a  Change' 153 

The  Old  Times  and  the  New 157 

Queer  Estimates 160 

A  Voice  from  the  Past 164 

Waiting 166 

'No  Room  for  Two' lYo 

The  Grammar  of  Life 1^2 

' Don't  Forget' i«n 

Blessed  Almanacs joo 

The  Wonders  of  '  Galena' _  186 

The  Old-fashioned  Fire 188 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAG  I 

Prestol    Changel 191 

Voices  of  the  Dead 195 

Thanksgiving 202 

The  Old  Garret 206 

A  Half-hour  at  the  Window ?  210 

Our  Paper 220 

Riding  on  a  Rail. 242 

Winter  Nights 249 

The  Last  of  Ten 262 

'  Shadows  we  are' 265 

Time  Indicted 267 

The  Old-fashioned  Mother 272 

The  Dying  Musician 279 


June  Dews 82 

The  Beautiful  River 40 

'  God  Bless  our  Stars  for  ever' 66 

The  Flag-star  of  Even 136 

'  It  will  all  be  Right  in  the  Morning' 168 

Moonlight  and  a  Memory 218 

The  New  Craft  in  the  Offing 240 

Home  at  Last 261 

The  Past  is  with  us  still 271 

Broken  Memories  in  Broken  Rhymes. 276 

1* 


THE  WORLD,  now-a-days,  live  too  much  "  in  tlie 
house :"  souls  grow  angular  as  the  apartments  they 
dwell  in,  and  come,  like  them,  to  have  parlors  and 
pantries,  closets  and  coal-holes  ;  views  take  color  from 
the  windows  they  are  seen  through  ;  muffled  thoughts 
in  listed  slippers,  walk  on  carpets,  and  the  firm,  free 
footfall  upon  the  bare  floors  of  this  great  caravansary, 
are  not  to  be  heard  "  by  ears  polite." 

Sunlight,  in-doors,  is  a  nun  and  enters  veiled ;  or  it 
is  a  "  grocery,"  poured  from  a  tin  can ;  or  a  chemical, 
conducted  in  an  iron  tube.  The  air,  in-doors,  must 
needs  be  beaten  with  fans,  into  a  mockery  of  motion, 
and  music,  immured  in  rosewood  and  mahogany,  is 
manumitted  at  intervals,  by  ivory  fingers  with  ivory 
keys. 


12  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

"Whoever  has  time  to  look  and  listen,  need  only  go 
out  of  doors,  to  wonder  and  be  charmed.  On  any 
"quarter  section"  in  the  world,  may  be  seen  and 
heard,  the  alphabet  of  almost  all  thought,  and  the 
utterances  of  almost  all  tongues.  This  is  not  a  dis 
covery  ;  oh,  no !  but  only  a  wreath  of  vapor  to  the 
"  cloud  of  witnesses  "  that  have  already  testified. 


JIM. 

THE  pulses  of  great  Nature  never  beat  more  audi 
bly  and  musically  than  just  about  "  the  leafy  month 
of  June :"  life,  every  where  life,  in  field  and  flood,  in 
earth,  and  air,  and  sky.  Life  in  all  forms  :  life  with 
a  sweet  breath  in  it,  life  with  a  song  in  it,  life  with 
a  light  in  it.  Life  tied  up  in  little  bags  of  most 
Quakerish-looking  silk,  by  that  sly  spinner,  the  spi 
der ;  life  done  up  in  gray  bundles,  and  hung  upon 
apple  trees ;  deposited  in  little  brown  paper  cups,  or 
packed  away  in  little  clay  cells,  by  gentry  in  yellow 
jackets,  and  gentry  with  delicate  waists,  whose  only 
foible  consists  in  their  not  being,  always  and  alto 
gether,  like  Job  and  Moses  ;  life  hidden  in  the  hearts 


LIFE.  13 

of  ripening  plums  and  reddening  cherries — find  a 
sweeter  cradle  any  where,  if  you  can  ;  life  rocked  in 
shells,  put  up  in  mother-of-pearl,  set  in  ivory,  chased 
with  gold,  consigned  to  little  graves  every  where  ;  laid 
away  in  "  Patent  Burial  Cases  " — just  where  Fisk 
got  the  idea — and  fastened  to  rails  and  fence-posts ; 
life,  that,  by  and  by,  shall  spread  wings  damp  with 
the  imprint  of  this  great  Stereotyping  Establishment 
of  the  Almighty ;  life  standing  "  on  end,"  in  little 
boats,  and  rising  into  the  air,  taking  to  bugle-ing  as 
soon  as  it  is  born,  and  evincing,  by  the  presentation  of 
"  bills  "  at  most  unseasonable  and  unreasonable  hours, 
a  decided  talent  for  ledger  literature  ;  life  sheltering 
itself  beneath  the  leathern  umbrella  of  the  mush 
room,  revelling  in  the  rose's  red  heart,  drilled  into  the 
solid  rock,  domiciled  in  mud  hovels,  along  rafters  and 
beneath  eaves,  "  playing  in  the  plighted  clouds," 
"laid"  in  a  manger,  peeping  from  holes,  floating  in 
the  air,  swinging  in  the  wind,  skulking  under  the 
chips,  burrowing  in  the  earth,  darting  along  rail 
fences,  opening  nankeen  throats  from  little  baskets  of 
twigs,  floating  in  tatters  of  green  baize  on  the  ponds, 
advocating  Solomon  on  birch,  "  poor  "Will,"  talking 
Greek,  " brekekek  koax,  koax"  and  practising  hydro 
pathy,  k'chug ;  life  in  bags  and  boxes,  bundles  and 


14  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

blankets  ;  in  silks,  satins  and  shells;  in  "  tights,"  and 
flounces,  and  feathers  and  flannels  ;  life  full  dressed 
and  in  dishabille  ;  life  knocking  from  the  centre  of 
fallen  logs  ;  knocking  from  the  other  side  of  shells 
white  and  blue,  and  mottled  and  dappled ;  and  June  is 

"The  delegated  voice  of  God," 

to  bid  them  "  come  in,  come  up,  come  down,  come 
out,"  and  be,  and  do,  and  suffer ;  conjugating  and 
inflecting  the  great  active  verb — "  LIVE." 

Turn  over  the  loam  in  the  fields,  and  you  turn  out 
turtle's  eggs  by  the  score.  Go  "  across  lots  "  to  the 
neighbor's,  and  you  find  the  pearly  treasures  of  the 
whistling  quail  by  the  dozen.  Tap  a  sand-hill  lightly, 
with  the  toe  of  your  boot,  and  you  will  see  the  ladies 
to  whom  Solomon  referred  sluggards,  by  the  myriad. 
Shake  a  bush,  and  you  shake  out  a  bird,  or  a  peep,  or 
a  bug,  or  a  bud,  or  something  that's  "all  alive." 
Pluck  a  leaf,  and  you  may  find  on  it  a  crystal  drop, 
such  as  one  might  dream  Queen  Mab  would  shed  if 
"in  the  melting  mood ;"  but  the  sun  shall  "set"  on 
it  a  few  days,  and  out  will  come  a  thing  all  legs,  or 
wings,  or  stings — something  to  hum  or  drum — to  fly 
or  creep,  or  crawl ;  something  to  be  something  and 
some  body,  and  count  just  as  many  in  the  great  census 


A   MYSTERY.  15 

of  Creation,  as  he  who  called  the  shades  of  Ashland 
his,  or  she  who  journeyed,  of  old,  to  see  Solomon — 
count  just  as  many,  "  in  words  and  figures  following," 
to- wit :  (1)  one. 


*T!          '5CW    W    G   f    t>  f  W 

$     SP  2  *  *  *  *  5 « 

"  THINGS  are  working  "  these  June  days.  Things  ? 
Wonders  withal.  Why,  quiet  as  it  is  here  to-day, 
with  nothing  but  green  and  blue  in  sight — the  fields, 
the  woods,  and  the  sky — and  not  a  sound  of  carpen 
try,  save  the  incessant  hammering  upon  tree-trunks, 
of  worthies  in  red  caps,  there  is  more  going  on  than 
one  would  dream  of  between  the  third  call  and  break 
fast-time  ;  things  that  Silliman  couldn't  do,  nor  Davy, 
nor  Liebig. 

Do  you  see  that  cherry  tree  ?  Every  one  of  four 
bushels  upon  it.  There's  a  ripe  one.  Use  your 
"  pickers  and  steal ers,"  and  pluck  it.  A  cherry — red, 
ripe  and  rich.  Fragrance  and  flavor  done  up  in  a 
red  wrapper. 

Set  your  cunning  men  that  conjure  with  crucibles, 
to  make  one,  and  you  "set"  them  of  a  surety.  De 
pend  upon  them,  and  you  might,  and  you  would, 


16  JANUARY  AND  JUNE. 

"  make  two  bites  of  a  cherry."  Yet  on  that  modest 
tree,  "  out  of  doors,"  that  article  was  manufactured. 
No  furnace  sighing  from  morning  till  night — no 
workmen  in  white  aprons — no  sugar  crushed,  refined, 
snowy — no  flour  superfine — no  vermilion  in  pot  or 
powder — no  parade,  no  bustle  ;  but  there  they  are, 
"  cherry  ripe !" 

Winter's  cold  fingers  were  lifted  from  the  pulses  of 
the  tree,  and  they  throbbed  full  and  strong.  Pumps 
in  the  earth  below,  were  rigged  and  manned.  Signals 
were  silently  set  in  bud  and  blossom  aloft.  Winds 
came,  and  swung  the  branches,  and  peeped  into  this 
and  that,  and  went  away.-  Birds  came  and  looked 
about,  and  saw  nothing,  and  went  too.  Unseen 
hands  were  gathering,  and  moulding,  and  refining  all 
the  while.  The  sun  came  up  from  the  Tropic  of 
Capricorn,  and  looked  on — nothing  more.  The  clouds 
went  dripping  by,  and  never  stopped,  and  that  was 
all.  ED.,  or  SILAS,  or  some  body,  planted  a  cherry 
stone,  four  or  five  years  ago,  and  forgot  it ;  but  the 
"  whip  "  of  a  tree  went  right  on,  and  without  any 
help  that  we  can  see,  set  up  business,  and  manufac 
tured  Nature's  confectionary,  all  by  itself.  Last  week 
the  cherries  were  green — now  they  are  tinted  with 
red ;  not  a  brush  lying  about,  not  a  stained  finger 


PUMPKINS   AND    ENTEKPRISE.  17 

visible.  No  advertisements  in  the  newspapers,  of 
"  Painting  done  here  ;"  no  "Apprentices  wanted,"  for 
Nature's  hands  are  all  journeymen  ;  not  a  leaf  with 
a  capital  or  an  exclamation  point  on  it.  Ah !  that 
"  May  Duke "  belongs  to  the  Royal  Family  of— 
Nature. 


LAST  summer,  I  remember,  a  little  vine — a  Pump 
kin  vine — came  out  of  the  ground  in  a  cornfield,  '  up 
the  road,'  and  there  it  was,  in  the  midst  of  the  corn, 
unseeing  and  unseen.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it, 
but  to  make  the  best  of  its  way  out  to  the  fence  that 
bounded  the  road,  some  eighteen  or  twenty  feet  dis 
tant,  where  there  would  be  some  prospect  of  its  being 
appreciated,  if  it  could.  Could  ?  But  it  did,  for 
away  it  went,  vine  and  leaves,  baggage  and  all, 
through  the  corn,  this  way  and  that,  out  to  the  fence, 
and  up  the  fence,  three  rails,  and  through  the  fence. 
And  what  do  you  think  it  did  then  ?  Just  unravelled 
a  delicate  yellow  blossom,  and  held  it  there,  for  every 
one  passing  to  see,  saying  all  the  time,  as  well  as  it 
could — and  it  could  as  well  as  any  body — "  It's  me  ! 


18  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

See  what  I've  done — this!  Isn't  it  pretty  ?"  Well, 
there  it  held  it,  and  every  body  saw  it,  and  no  body 
thought  any  thing  about  it. 

Passing  that  way  in  the  Fall,  lo  !  a  PUMPKIN, 
rotund,  golden,  magnificent,  held  out  at  arm's  length 
by  the  little  vine  ;  held  in  the  air — held  week  after 
week,  and  never  laid  down,  nights,  nor  Sundays,  nor 
any  time. 

Now,  "man  your  brakes" — rig  your  levers,  ye 
Archimedes-es,  and  pump  up  from  the  earth,  and 
along  that  vine,  and  from  the  surrounding  air,  the  raw 
material  for  just  such  another  article  as  that,  and  you 
shall  have  two  summers  to  do  it  in.  Bring  on  the 
Alembic,  wherein  shall  be  distilled  from  the  falling 
rain,  the  essence  of  Pumpkin,  and  we'll  let  it  go 
without  painting. 


THE  world  is  curved  round  about  with  Heaven,  and 
Heaven  never  seems  nearer  than  in  June.  Its  great 
blue  rafters  bend  low  on  every  hand,  and  how  one 
can  get  out  of  the  world,  without  getting  into  Heaven, 
is  to  us  a  physical  mystery. 


DEATH.  19 

Childhood  enters  life  at  the  east,  coming  in,  like  p 
young  swallow,  beneath  the  eaves  ;  but  like  Desde- 
mona's  handkerchief,  he  is  "  little,"  and  he  stands 
erect  under  the  low-curved  roof.  On  he  goes,  into  the 
middle  of  the  world.  How  swells  the  dome  above 
him,  and  manhood  is  erect  still.  But  "  westward, 
westward,"  is  the  word,  and  by  and  by,  he  bends  his 
head  beneath  the  roof.  They  say  he  is  old — that  the 
weight  of  years  is  on  him — that  he  is  looking  for  a 
place  to  sleep  ;  but  it  is  only  that  he  may  clear  the 
rafters.  Low  and  lower  does  he  bend,  until,  with 
form  quite  doubled,  he  creeps  out  just  between  Hea 
ven  and  Earth,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

Death  is  not  afraid  of  the  sunshine,  for  he  comes 
in  June.  The  rustle  of  ten  thousand  leaves  does  not 
startle  him  ;  the  breath  of  ten  thousand  flowers  does 
not  charm  him  away.  Indeed  he  loves  flowers,  for 
has  not  a  dainty  Singer  declared  that  he  reaps 

"  The  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 
And  the  FLOWERS  that  grow  between  ?" 

There's  a  house  down  in  the  valley — you  can  see 
it  from  my  window — where,  when  they  numbered 
their  treasures,  they  said,  and  kept  saying,  "  three, 
three,  three,"  and  there  was  melody  in  the  monosyl 
lable—a  trinity  of  blessing  in  the  "  three ;"  but 


20  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

DEATH  was  counting  all  the  while,  and  "  one  "  he  was 
numbering  as  his  own,  and  his  count — alas  !  for  it — 
was  the  surest.  One  star  fell  from  the  blue  air  ;  it 
was  Heaven  aloft,  still.  One  white  rose  drifted  down 
to  earth  ;  it  was  summer  all  the  same.  And  so— 
and  so  what  ?  Philosophy  may  analyze  a  tear,  but 
it  cannot  curve  a  hope  in  it — it  cannot  bid  it  "  ex 
hale."  It  may  make  a  spectrum,  but  it  cannot  make 
a  smile.  And  the  text  for  this  is  a  brief  one  : 

DIED, 
On  Saturday  night,  the  18th  of  June, 

End  of  the  little  week  of  Life, 

And  it  is  Sunday  to-morrow  and  to-morrow, 

EDITH  J.  DARLING, 

Aged  13. 

Amiable,  she   won  all ;   intelligent,   she  charmed 

all ;    fervent,  she  loved  all ;    and 

dead,  she  saddened  all. 

Beside  the  little  brother  who  had  gone  on  before, 
an  empty  chrysalis  is  lying.  Who  seeks  EDICT:  ? 
There  is  a  realm  where 

"  December's  as  pleasant  as  May" — 

where  it  is  June  all  the  year  long.  There  is  a 
Recording  Angel,  and  a  book  lies  open  before  him  ; 
and  the  page  for  "  June  18th,  '53,"  bears,  in  letters 
of  light,  the  name — EDITH. 


DEATH.  21 

A  dream-eyed  daughter  of  the  "  drowsy  East "  lost 
a  favorite  Gazelle.  It  wandered  away  in  the  Persian 
gardens,  and  its  young  Mistress  had  followed  it  all 
the  long  afternoon.  It  had  come  at  her  call ;  it  had 
eaten  from  her  hand ;  it  had  rested  its  head  on  her 
bosom  ;  it  was  timid,  and  she  won  it ;  tender,  and  she 
cherished  it ;  helpless,  and  she  loved  it.  And  now  it 
had  gone  ;  the  shadows  were  deepening  and  length 
ening,  and  the  lost  was  not  found.  All  the  afternoon 
she  had  traced  it,  by  the  imprint  its  little  feet  had 
left  upon  the  enamelled  and  emerald  sod  ;  but  night 
came  on,  and,  what  for  the  tears  and  the  darkness, 
the  footsteps  grew  dim,  like  a  half-effaced  memory  of 
something  loved  and  lost. 

She  knelt  upon  the  turf,  and  bending  low,  still  read 
the  records  of  the  truant's  wanderings,  and  followed 
them.  But  the  shadows  fell  too  heavily  at  last,  and 
she  sat  among  the  flowers  and  wept ;  and  as  she  was 
mourning,  there  came  to  her  the  fragrance  of  a  flower 
sweeter  than  its  fellows,  and  with  the  sweetness  came 
the  thought,  still  sweeter  :  her  favorite's  foot  had 
crushed  it,  till  it  uttered  that  fragrant  sigh.  So  filled 
with  hope,  she  followed  the  Gazelle  through  the  dark 
ness  by  the  perfume  in  its  pathway,  and  she  found  it 
at  last,  its  lips  reddened  with  red  roses,  its  limbs  laved 


22  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

in  white  lilies,  sweetly  reposing  in  the  "  GARDENS  OF 
PARADISE." 

There  was  joy  that  night  amid  the  darkness  and 
dews.  The  maiden  returned,  but  she  left  her  heart 
in  token  that  the  treasure  lying  there  was  her  own  ; 
for  she  had  read  some  where,  but  not  in  the  Koran, 
"  Where  your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be 
also." 


"  OUR  FOLKS  " — we  have  folks  ;  folks  of  whose 
names,  ages,  and  occupations  the  Census  gives  no  ac 
count  ;  folks  as  good  as  any  body's,  "  and  these  are 
of  them  :"  A  flaunting,  pompous,  Pharisaical  GRAPE 
VINE,  with  very  broad,  green  phylacteries,  bids  fair  to 
overrun  the  entire  premises.  It  made  its  appearance, 
I  am  told,  near  the  kitchen-door,  a  few  years  ago,  in 
a  very  meek,  unostentatious  manner — a  statement, 
considering  the  "  complexion  to  which  it  has  come  at 
last,"  requiring  about  as  much  credulity  as  there  is 
vine,  to  believe.  Its  aspirations  were  soon  manifested 
in  the  display  of  divers  mermaidish-looking  ringlets, 


OUR   FOLKS.  23 

with  two  or  three  dainty  "quirls"  therein,  flung  out  to 
the  wind,  and  fluttering  very  gaily  indeed. 

Its  ambitious  tendencies  being  early  discovered,  a 
frame,  large  enough  to  satisfy  any  thing  short  of  a 
Corsican  ambition,  was  erected ;  and  the  Vine  roofed 
it,  and  walled  it,  and  festooned  it,  and  hung  rich 
clusters  of  grapes  around  it,  and  filled  it  with  fra 
grance,  and  broke  it  down,  and — and  wliat  ?  That's 
just  it — and  what  should  it  do  next  ?  Those  green 
ringlets  were  set  afloat  again,  and  the  Vine  made 
most  insidious  advances  towards  a  respectable  Apple 
Tree  that  stood  near ;  which,  being  young,  and  inex 
perienced  in  the  wiles  and  ways  of  Catawbas,  Isa 
bellas,  and  the  like,  permitted  its  attentions.  So  the 
Vine  encircled  its  waist  very  lovingly  with  a  tendril 
and  a  tendresse  that  would  have  been  pronounced 
"quite  the  thing"  in  the  first  circles.  Any  body 
would  have  supposed,  for  a  while,  that  it  would  be 
whirling  away  with  the  Apple  Tree  in  a  waltz 
through  the  Orchard.  It  did  no  such  thing  ;  but  just 
clambered  up  higher  and  higher,  and  swayed  this 
way  and  that,  and  whispered,  and  swung,  and  ca 
ressed,  and  made  itself  as  agreeable  as  possible.  By 
and  by,  it  half  said,  half  sighed,  '  Let  me  fling  a 
wreath  over  you,  sweet  Tree,'  and  a  wreath  it  was. 


21  JANUARY  AND  JUNE. 

'  Just  a  festoon  or  two  ;'  and  festoons  almost  hid  the 
poor  Tree  from  view. 

Now  the  Vine  crept  up,  sans  ceremonie,  put  out  its 
great  broad  leaves,  and  disposed  its  clusters  to  the 
sun  and  in  the  shade  alamode,  and  thought  nothing 
of  the  means  whereby  it  had  gotten  "  up  in  tho 
world."  Meanwhile,  its  victim  struggled  on  a  year 
or  two ;  paid  a  feeble  tribute  to  Flora,  and  a  feebler 
one  to  Pomona — if  that's  her  name — while  the  Vine 
heaped  the  Summer  on  its  half-leafless  branches,  and 
rolled  up  like  a  great  green  billow  into  the  sun.  Not 
content  with  this,  the  unprincipled  thing  paid  its  ad 
dresses  to  a  Peach  Tree,  and  more  than  half  ruined 
it ;  but  the  Tree  bore  it  all  patiently,  and  never  said 
a  word,  and  never  "peached."  And  so  the  Vine 
keeps  "  going  on,"  to  the  great  "  taking  on"  of  all 
orderly  Apple  and  Peach  Trees,  and  the  great  scandal 
of  the  neighborhood. 

ANOTHER  OF  THEM. 

A  GENTLEMAN  in  a  suit  of  sober  brown  pays  daily 
devoirs  and  devours  to  a  Cherry  Tree  near  the  house. 
Taking  one  or  two  of  the  ripened  rubies,  dainty  fel 
low  that  he  is,  he  sits  and  amuses  himself  by  the 
hour,  echoing  the  various  notes  that  are  uttered  around 


OUK   FOLKS.  25 

him.  He  is  a  decided  Robin,  a  querulous  Cat-bird,  a 
veritable  Thrush,  and  a  positive  Goldfinch,  by  turns, 
and  sometimes,  as  if  a  hand-organ  should  go  crazy, 
and  play  all  its  tunes  at  once,  he  gives  them  all  to 
gether.  The  northern  MOCKING  BIRD  is  a  "  charac 
ter,"  though  he  has  none  of  his  own,  and  never  was 
known  to  utter  an  original  idea  upon  music  in  his 
life.  He  has  many  relatives  who  never  wear  feathers 
except  in  hats  and  bonnets,  and  whose  chief  merit  is 
that  of  a  blank  wall,  saying  nothing  of  themselves, 
but  giving  back  imperfectly,  the  utterances  of  others. 
This  worthy  in  October  brown  is  not  a  Bachelor,  as 
one  might  surmise  by  his  freedom  from  care,  and 
light  merry  air,  but  a  very  respectable  Benedict.  His 
family,  three  members— one  died  in  shell-dom — reside 
in  a  little  Oak  tree  across  the  road,  and  are  nearly 
ready  to  leave  the  old  homestead,  and  "  do  for  them 
selves."  What  a  medley  of  Sparrows  and  Quails,  of 
Blue  Jay  and  Robin,  lies  within  the  circumference 
of  that  little  nest ;  and  they  are  all  "  Our  Folks." 

"AND  so  ON." 

EVERY  evening,  a  little  after  sunset,  a  WHIPPOOR- 
WILL  takes  up  his  position  and  his  trisyllabic  song  on 
a  fallen  tree,  not  far  from  the  house.  A  queer  bird, 


26  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

careless  in  domestic  matters — for  it  builds  no  nest  of 
any  account — it  sits  and  sings  through  the  deepening 
twilight  on  into  the  moonlight ;  and  if  you  creep  suffi 
ciently  near,  you  will  see  that  it  positively  beats 
time  with  its  little  foot  upon  the  log,  and  hear,  be 
tween  the  strains,  a  click  like  that  of  a  clock  just  as 
it  strikes  the  hour. 

A  rare  Music  Box  is  the  Whippoorwill,  manufac 
tured,  tuned,  and  wound  by  the  same  fingers  that 
keyed  the  spheres  to  their  sublime  harmonies. 

"LITTLE  JEMMY." 

AND  there's  "  JEMMY,"  a  little  top-knotted,  green- 
coated  Canary  of  some  five  months,  that  sits  in  his 
cage,  crumbles  his  cracker,  notches  his  fresh  lettuce, 
cracks  his  Canary  seed,  makes  his  toilet,  and  ogles  the 
Yellow  Birds  that  ride  around  his  prison  on  the  swells 
of  the  air. 

A  while  ago,  Jemmy  was  slightly  depressed,  and 
"for  cause,"  as  will  be  seen.  Relying  too  much  on 
the  twist  in  the  conjugal  tie,  LUCY — she's  one  of  "  Our 
Folks,"  but  the  Census  Takers  have  her  "  description" 
— suffered  Jemmy's  wife,  NELLY,  to  fly  out  to  a  Lilac 
Tree  in  front  of  the  house,  supposing,  of  course,  she 
would  fly  back  on  wings  of  love ;  but  the  swaying 


OUR    FOLK*.  27 

boughs,  the  free  air,  and,  I  sadly  fear,  the  blandish 
ments  of  some  unprincipled  Lothario  of  a  Goldfinch, 
were  too  much  for  poor  Nelly's  virtue,  and  she  never 
returned  to  her  allegiance ;  so  Jemmy  has  kept 
Bachelor's  Hall  ever  since. 

"  Nelly  was  a  lady  ;"  at  least,  so  we  all  thought ; 
but,  the  other  day,  she  made  her  appearance  in  a 
Peach  Tree,  right  in  sight  of  her  lord  and  master — 
decidedly  the  worst  thing  I  know  of  her — accompa 
nied  by  a  suspicious-looking  fellow  in  buff  waistcoat 
and  "inexpressibles."  We  didn't — "Our  Folks" — 
much  approve  of  the  twitterings  and  chirpings  be 
tween  them  ;  but  Jemmy  is  a  good  deal  of  a  philoso 
pher-  ;  so  he  turned  about  upon  his  perch  as  nonclia- 
lant  as  a  Regent  Street  fashionable.  There  was  a 
little  swelling  in  his  throat.  Was  it  a  rising  sigh  ? 
Nothing  of  the  sort ;  for  he  warbled  a  ditty — not  of 
the  strongest,  we  confess,  but  then  musical,  resigned, 
Jemmy-like — the  burden  of  which  was,  as  nearly  as 
I  could  make  it  out,  something  like  this  :  "  Not  a — 
whistle — for  Nelly,  Nell,  Nelly,  give  I ;  not  a — war 
ble — a  twitter — a  quaver — care  I.  This — crotchet — 
of  Nelly's  a — minim — to  me  !"  The  very  day  that 
Nelly  deserted  Jemmy's  perch  and  pickings,  a  driving 
storm  swept  over  the  country,  and  there  was  a  sound 


28  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

of  great  lamentation  for  Nelly  ;  but,  alas  !  she  was 
left  to  a  worse  fate.  There  is  no  telling  what  Co 
quettes,  or  Canaries,  or  any  of  us  may  come  to,  if  left 
to  ourselves. 

P. AN   EVERLASTING   PEA. 

AN  EVER-LAST-ING  PEA — the  last  of  "  Our  Folks" 
to-day — a  sweet  thing  to  look  at,  but  with  no  more 
breath  than  an  Oyster,  has  been  growing  neglected 
beside  the  door  for  a  long  time.  Several  impudent 
Burdocks  and  saucy  Pigweeds  had  grown  over  it  and 
around  it ;  and  there  it  was  without  a  frame,  a  staff, 
or  even  a  thread  to  help  itself  with,  and  climb  out  of 
the  way,  up  into  the  air,  and  be  beautiful,  and  be 
admired. 

There  it  was,  struggling  alone,  and  running  all 
over  the  ground,  and  getting  no  where,  when,  one  day, 
a  bolder  branch,  that  had  gone  out  some  where  for 
succor,  discovered  the  Lightning  Conductor.  There 
was  a  way  up  and  out,  indeed ;  and  why  shouldn't  a 
PEA  as  well  as  a  PEOPLE  run  on  a  Rail  ?  And  here 
was  an  aerial  Railway,  ready  and  in  "  running  order," 
for  the  creeper  and  climber.  So  it  encircled  the  cold 
iron,  and  swung  itself  up ;  and  whither  it  might  have 
gone,  and  what  it  might  have  done,  is  more  than 


OUR   FOLKS.  29 

any  body  knows  ;  but  a  frame — such  as  it  was — was 
built,  and  the  truant  tethered  with  a  string.  One 
thing  it  did  was  this :  laid  a  blushing  leaf  close  to 
the  cold,  dark  iron.  And  what  for  ?  Why,  claiming 
relationship,  of  a  truth.  Iron  tinted  that  leaf  to  "  the 
color  of  virtue."  Iron  makes  those  Roses  glow  in 
their  new  frames  beside  the  path.  Indeed,  one  could 
almost  write  poetry  without  inspiration,  only  give 
him  plenty  of  iron  : 

The  jarring  of  the  iron  wheels  along  the  iron  rails  ; 

The  anvils  with  their  iron  din  beneath  the  iron  flails ; 

The  panting  of  the  iron  forge ;  the  twang  of  iron  wire ; 

The  music  of  an  iron  age;  of  iron  and  of  fire ; 

The  netting  of  the  iron  nerve  that's  thrilling  through  the 

world ; 

The  iron  bayonet  to  the  bolt  by  glittering  tempests  hurled ; 
The  thunder  of  the  iron  loom ;  the  shuttle's  plunging  steel ; 
The  weaving  of  the  zones  of  earth — five  ribbons  round  a 

reel ; 

The  couplet  of  the  iron  song,  of  which  TWO  BARS  are  sung, 
That  makes  as  dear  as  "household  words"  the  Anglo-Saxon 

tongue ; 

The  clanking  of  the  iron  Press,  the  echo  of  the  Age, 
While  waking  Thought,  with  iron  tread,  leaves  foot-prints 

on  the  page; 

All  sinews  are  of  iron  now;  all  breathings  are  of  fire; 
And  engines  with  their  iron  hearts  can  toil  and  never  tire; 
The  winds  are  lulled,  but  iron  craft  are  panting  round  the 

globe ; 

And  iron  needles  ravel  out  old  Ocean's  seamless  robe. 
In  calm  Pacific's  golden — 


30  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

but,  'tis  a  hard  theme ;  and,  printers  permitting,  I'll 
"  mind  my  P's  and  0,'s"  again.  There  was  some 
thing  of  almost  classic  beauty  in  the  sight :  a  green, 
luxuriant  vine  encircling  a  rude  bayonet,  fixed  by  the 
fingers  of  Philosophy,  against  the  lightnings  of 
Heaven  ;  the  rusty  route  of  the  thunder-bolt  wreathed 
in  the  beauty  of  Summer  ;  a  token  of  amity  extended 
upon  the  "  present  arms"  of  Science  to  the  tempest ; 
an  offering  from  the  warm  bosom  of  a  June  earth  to 
the  genii  of  the  cloudy  caverns  of  the  air. 

Does  some  body  ask  you  what  you  think  of  "  OUR 
FOLKS  ?"  Pray,  don't  mind  me ;  but  utter  it  boldly, 
like  a  Jeffreys. 


NATURE  was  out  in  her  Jewelry  this  morning,  or, 
as  some  body's  little  Charley,  or  Molly,  or  Johnny 
would  say,  in  her  "  Dewelry"  and  that's  just  the 
word  wanted — glittering  with  the  young  rain  that 
waits  its  wings. 

By  the  way,  that  Nimrod  in  science  who  went 
hunting  the  DEW,  and  made  a  fame  that  shall  last 
forever  :  Wasn't  it  a  pretty  idea  when,  placing  the 


JEWELRY.  31 

bulbs  of  delicate  thermometers  in  the  bosoms  of  lilies 
and  the  hearts  of  young  roses,  he  felt  the  pulses  of 
the  flowers  as  they  grew  ?  Wasn't  it  fairy-like  work 
for  a  mortal  man  to  be  doing  ? 

And  then,  when  he  found  that  the  buds  and  the 
blossoms  were  all  the  cooler  as  they  needed  moisture 
the  more  ;  and  the  truth  sparkled  out  that  Dew  is  the 
invisible  vapor  floating  in  the  air,  which,  chilled  by 
the  cool  surfaces  of  the  flowers,  bursts  into  tears  over 
the  beauty  that  must  fade  ;  and  when  he  found  that 
this  aerial,  this  gossamer-winged  water,  is  the  singing, 
and  sighing,  and  cursing,  and  blessing  of  all  day  yes 
terday — the  music  of  the  Summer  all  written  out  in 
legible  score — notes  sparkling  and  beautiful,  every 
one — do  you  think  a  civic  crown  could  have  made 
him  greater  or  happier  ? 

And  when  he  found  that  in  cloudy  nights,  when 
there  was  no  Dew,  it  was  because  the  heat  radiated 
from  the  earth,  was  reflected  down  again  from  the 
clouds,  and  so,  like  a  beautiful  pendulum,  it  vibrated 
to  and  fro — the  clods  and  the  clouds,  the  clouds  and 
the  clods — and  the  earth  could  not  grow  cold,  and 
its  breath  could  not  condense,  and  there,  beneath  the 
stars,  like  the  pulses  of  a  mighty  breast,  beating  softly 
against  the  downy  covering  of  cloud  all  the  night 


32  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

long  ! — would  our  Hunter,  do  you  think,  have  changed 
fames  with  the  tinker  of  the  clock  of  Strasturg  ? 

There  is  one  little  circumstance — most  awkward 
word  is  that  "  circumstance" — which  perhaps  I  should 
bid  adieu  to  the  Dews  without  noting :  that  they 
have  sparkled  for  decades  of  centuries,  and  every  tody, 
from  the  hards  of  a  thousand  years  to  the  last  scribbler 
for  a  scrap-book,  has  likened  them  to  every  thing,  and 
every  thing  to  them,  that  is  lucent  and  lovely,  and 
blessed  and  beautiful ;  and  YET,  all  the  while,  until  a 
few  days  or  so  ago,  no  body  knew  where  they  were 
born,  whether  they  rose,  or  fell,  or  flew,  or,  as  child 
ren  say,  "just  come  0'  themselves.'"  And  YET  philo 
sophers,  or  "  so  they  say,"  gurgled  Hebrew  before 
Remus  was  "naughty"  to  his  brother,  and  leaped 
Rome's  wall. 

Few  there  are,  who  dream  how  blessed  and  beauti 
ful,  sad  and  solemn,  are  the  components  of  Dew  ; 
and  here  is  a  recipe  therefor  : 

$une    D  cto  0. 

The  breath  of  the  leaves  and  the  lyrics  of  dawn 

"Were  floating  away  in  the  air ; 
The  brooks  and  the  birds  were  all  singing  aloud ; 

The  violets  looking  a  prayer, 
With  eyes  that  upturned  so  tearful  and  true, 

Like  Mary's  of  old,  when  forgiven, 


JUNE    DEWS.  33 

Had  caught  the  reflection  and  mirrored  it  there, 

As  bright  and  as  melting  as  heaven. 
The  silvery  mist  of  the  red  robin's  song, 

Slow  swung  in  the  wind-wavered  nest ; 
The  billows  that  swell  from  the  forests  of  June, 

Almost  to  the  blue  of  the  blest ; 
"The  bells"  that  are  rung  by  the  breath  of  the  breeze, 

And  "  toll  their  perfume"  as  they  swing,; 
The  brooks  that  are  trolling  a  tune  of  their  own, 

And  dance  to  whatever  they  sing ; 
The  groan  of  the  wretched,  the  laugh  of  the  glad, 

Are  blent  with  the  breath  of  a  prayer ; 
The  sigh  of  the  dying,  the  whisper  of  love, 

A  vow  that  was  broken,  are  there  I 
There  dimly  they  float,  'mid  the  ripe,  golden  hours, 

Along  the  bright  trellis  of  air ; 
The  smothered  good-bye,  and  the  whisper  of  love, 

The  ban  and  the  blessing  are  there  I 
Cool  fingers  are  weaving  the  curtains  again, 

Whose  woofing  is  netted  with  stars ; 
The  tremulous  woods  on  the  verge  of  the  world, 

Just  bending  beneath  the  blue  spars, 
Are  valanced  with  crimson  and  welted  with  gold. 

"Where  now  are  the  vesper  and  vow — 
Those  spirit-like  breathings  of  sadness  and  song, 

That  brought  not  a  cloud  o'er  the  brow, 
Bedimmed  not  a  beam  of  the  bright  summer  morn  ? 

Not  wafted  away,  for  the  aspen  is  still ; 
Not  fled  on  the  wings  of  the  hours ; 

Not  hiding  the  heaven — lo!  the  stars  in  the  clear; 
Not  perished,  but  here  on  the  flowers — 

Those  smiles  of  Divinity  lighting  the  world, 
Whose  breath  is  for  ever  a  prayer ; 

Who  blush  without  sinning,  and  blanch  without  fear; 
Oh!  where  should  they  be,  if  not  there? 
2* 


34  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 


THERE  is  a  beautiful  significance  in  the  fact  that 
when  Divinity  would  build  a  temple  for  Himself  on 
earth,  he  commanded  that  it  should  rise  without  the 
sound  of  hammer,  and  so, 

"  Like  some  tall  pine,  the  noiseless  fabric  grew." 

The  HAMMER  is  the  emblem  of  man's  creations. 
About  his  rarest  works  you  will  find  it ;  hidden  in  a 
corner,  resting  on  a  column,  lying  behind  a  statue  ;  it 
is  some  ivhere.  Heap  about  the  pedestal  whereon 
stands  the  "  GREEK  SLAVE"  the  chips  and  the  chisels, 
the  gravers  and  the  hammers,  and  how  is  the  magic 
of  the  marble  diminished  or  destroyed  i  It  is  no 
longer  a  being  waked  from  the  sleep  of  creation, 
throwing  off  its  Parian  shroud,  and  only  waiting  the 
whisper  of  Omnipotence  to  breathe,  but  a  stone, 
blasted,  and  pried,  and  tugged,  and  lifted  from  some 
body's  quarry ;  perforated,  and  chipped,  and  hewn ; 
modelled  in  clay  by  a  man  in  an  apron,  and  wrought 
out  "  by  the  hardest"  by  macaroni-eating  barbarians 
in  short  jackets  and  blue  caps.  The  dead  waking, 
the  dumb  eloquent,  the  silent  thought  shaping  out  and 


FINISHED.  35 

indwelling  the  marble,  all  vanish,  "  like  the  baseless 
fabric  of  a  vision,"  at  the  sight  of  a  hammer.  The 
Yankee  '  sees  into  it,'  and  '  guesses'  a  lathe  could 
be  made  '  to  turn'  the  thing  out  in  half  the  time,  and 
is  '  sure  as  preaching'  he  was  born  to  make  it.  He 
wonders  if  it  couldn't  be  '  run'  in  a  mould ;  if  plas 
ter  wouldn't  do  as  well ;  whether  the  least  '  tick'  of 
red  paint  wouldn't  make  her  lips  '  kinder'  human, 
and  a  pink  skirt  more  like  a  Christian  ?  He  '  can't 
see  why'  it  should  cost  'such  a  tarnal  sight;'  and 
where  are  the  beauty  and  the  poetry  of  the  GREEK 
SI^AVE  ?  Ask,  "  Where  are  the  birds  that  sang  an 
hundred  years  ago  ?"  as  well. 

In  the  construction  of  this  great  Temple  of  the 
World,  find,  if  you  can,  a  moulding,  a  cornice,  an  ar 
chitrave,  with  a  rivet  in  it ;  any  puttying  of  nails,  or 
hiding  of  seams,  or  painting  over  of  patches.  Oh ! 
no ;  every  thing  is  finished,  no  matter  where,  no  mat 
ter  how  you  find  it.  All  the  blue  masonry  of  Night 
was  done  without  trowel  or  hammer.  No  quick  clip 
of  scissors  scalloping  the  leaves  of  ten  thousand 
flowers ;  no  ring  from  the  mighty  anvil,  whence 
scintillate,  nightly,  the  sparks  of  starry  time;  no 
brushes,  or  pencils,  or  patterns,  lying  about  rose-trees 
and  woodbines ;  no  "  staging"  discovered  round  the 


36  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

oak  as  it  goes  up  ;  no  mortising  machines  nor  mallets 
beneath  it,  though  the  great  arms  securely  fastened  to 
the  column,  are  swaying  bravely  aloft. 

"Who  ever  sat  up  late  enough  at  night,  or  rose  long 
enough  before  the  sun  in  the  morning,  to  find  any 
thing  unfinished  ?  If  a  bud,  'twas  done  ;  if  a  blos 
som,  perfect ;  a  leaf  or  a  leaflet,  alike  nonpareil.  Bid 
the  "Seven  Wise  Men  of  Greece"  sit  in  solemn  con 
clave  over  a  budded  rose,  and  what  one  of  them 
would  dream  there  was  any  thing  more  to  be  done, 
any  thing  more  to  be  desired  ? 

Who  ever  detected,  any  where,  a  leaflet  half 
fashioned  or  a  flower  half  painted  ?  a  brush's  careless 
trail  on  some  little  thing  that  peeps  out  of  the  cleft 
of  a  rock,  and  dodges  back  again  at  a  breath  ;  some 
little  thing  of  no  consequence,  that  no  body  hardly 
ever,  if  ever,  sees  ?  Ah  !  no  ;  as  delicately  finished, 
fashioned,  and  perfumed,  as  if  it  had  bloomed  in  the 
conservatory  of  a  queen,  and  been  destined  for  the 
•wreath  that  encircles  her  brow. 

Every  thing  of  Heaven's  handiwork  is  finished,  from 
first  to  last ;  from  the  Plan  of  Salvation,  '  finished' 
upon  Calvary,  to  the  violet  '  finished,'  that  opens  its 
blue  eye  to  the  dew. 


"  BUGS"    AND  BEAUTIES.  37 


FOR  the  last  five  minutes,  a  MILLER  in  a  dusty 
suit  of  "  silver  gray"  has  been  fluttering  round   the 
candle.     Yesterday  afternoon,  his  royal   cousin,   the 
BUTTERFLY,  that  some  body,  so  Cowley-like,  called  "  a 
winged  flower,"  was  fluttering  round  a  sunbeam.     But 
no  dusty  miller  was  this,  in  sober  gray,  for  when  Na 
ture  painted  it,  she  spared  no  tint  of  the  richest  and 
rarest  that  would  render  it  beautiful — that  would 
"  show"  in  the  sun.     There's  a  fellow  in  dark  brown 
now,  creeping  over  the  sheet  as  I  write.     It  stopped 
at  the  word,  '  Butterfly,'  and  crawled  contemptuously 
over  it.     This  Mr.  Brown  is  never  seen  in  the  day 
time,  but  looks  well  enough  by  lamplight,  starlight, 
or  moonlight.     Any  thing  more  would  be  useless,  be 
cause  "unsight,  unseen,"  as  the  boys  say.     Had  it 
been  other  than  a  night-walker,  it  would  have  been 
spotted  with  gold,  specked  with  vermilion,  tricked  out 
with  indigo-blue  legs,  or  rigged  with  transparencies. 
Nature  is  altogether  an  artist,  and  though  with  all 
the  dyes  of  the  rainbow  at  command,  and  to  spare, 
exhibits  a  most  remarkable  and  commendable  economy 


38  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

in  her  adornings.  Show  me  a  flower  opening  only  at 
night,  and  I  will  almost  always  show  you  one  that 
has  taken  the  white  veil  or  affects  a  demure  gray. 
She  is  equally  judicious  in  her  varnishing :  the  upper 
surfaces  of  millions  of  leaves — how  glossy  and  polished  ! 
Three  coats  of  paint  and  six  of  varnish,  by  the  palette 
of  Reubens  !  But  the  lower  surfaces,  just  as  nice,  but 
neither  so  green  nor  so  glossy  ;  it  would  be  of  no  use, 
and  besides,  they  could  not  breathe  freely  through  new 
paint. 

Speaking  of  coloring  :  isn't  it  a  little  queer,  or  is  it 
just  as  might  be  expected,  that  JOHN  GALT  should 
come  all  the  way  across  the  ocean,  out  of  two  thick 
nesses  of  London  fog,  to  tell  people  "  to  the  manor 
born"  what  color  an  American  sky  is,  in  the  summer, 
toward  sunset  ?  Or  that  they  should  marvel  to  learn 
it  is  an  apple-green — the  reflection  of  those  great 
emeralds  of  earth,  the  Prairies,  and  those  miles  on 
miles  of  forest  billows,  that  roll  up  and  up,  and  fling 
their  green  spray  into  heaven  ?  Poetasters,  poor  fel 
lows  !  how  blank  they'd  look — wouldn't  they  ?  — 
should  a  law  be  passed,  forbidding  their  babble  about 
azure,  blue,  and  cerulean  skies ;  and  they  compelled, 
if  they  spoke  at  all,  to  say, '  Oh !  apple-green  heavens !' 
Nature  is  not  half  so  pains-taking  with  very  early 


"  BUGS"    AND    BEAUTIES.  39 

morning  as  with  the  later  day,  and  for  the  best  reason 
in  life,  there's  no  body  "  up  "  to  see.  So  she  makes  it 
a  neat  steel-gray,  inlaying  a  piece  or  two  of  pearl  here 
and  there,  and  looping  up  round  the  edges,  a  few  odd 
bits  of  red  ribbon.  Noon  she  doesn't  mind  much. 
To  be  sure  the  coloring  is  rich  and  warm,  but  then, 
nothing  like  a  master-piece.  But  '  come  night,' 
when  the  labor  of  the  world  is  pretty  near  done,  she 
'  lays  herself  out '  in  the  "West,  exactly  where  every 
body  would  naturally  be  looking,  and  gathers  there, 
the  pearl  and  gold  of  morning,  the  glow  and  glory  of 
noon,  and  the  Tyrian  tints  of  night.  She  spreads 
there,  unbended  rainbows  from  dismantled  clouds ; 
she  gives  there,  patterns  for  the  sea-shells  to  tint  by  — 
a  red  and  a  white  that  set  the  pattern  for  York  and 
Lancaster  —  themes  for  a  thousand  preachers,  and 
songs  for  a  thousand  bards. 

On  such  a  night,  in  such  a  June,  who  has  not  sat, 
side  by  side,  with  some  body,  for  all  the  world  like 
"  Jenny  June  ?"  May-be  it  was  years  ago ;  but  it 
was  some  time.  May-be  you  had  quite  forgotten  it ; 
but  you  will  be  the  better  for  remembering  it.  May 
be  she  has  "  gone  on  before,"  where  it  is  June  all  the 
year  long,  and  never  January  at  all ;  but  God  forbid  ! 

There  it  was,  and  then  it  was,  and  thus  it  was  : 


40  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 


&  f)  e   aSeauttful 

Like  a  Foundling  in  slumber,  the  summer  day  lay 

On  the  crimsoning  threshold  of  Even, 
And  I  thought  that  the  glow  through   '  the  azure-arched ' 
way, 

Was  a  glimpse  of  the  coming  of  Heaven. 
There  together  we  sat  by  the  beautiful  stream  : 
We  had  nothing  to  do,  but  to  love  and  to  dream, 

In  the  days  that  have  gone  on  before. 
These  are  not  the  same  days,  though  they  bear  the  same 

name, 
With  the  ones  I  shall  welcome  no  more. 

But  it  may  be,  the  angels  are  culling  them  o'er, 

For  a  Sabbath  and  Summer  for  ever, 
When  the  years  shall  forget  the  Decembers  they  wore, 

And  the  shroud  shall  be  woven,  no,  never  I 
In  a  twilight  like  that,  Jenny  June  for  a  bride, 
Oh  1  what  more  of  the  world  could  one  wish  for  beside, 

As  we  gazed  on  the  River  unroll'd, 
Till  we  heard,  or  we  fancied,  its  musical  tide, 

When  it  flowed  through  the  Gate-way  of  gold  ? 

Jenny  June,  then  I  said,  let  us  linger  no  more, 

On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Eiver — 
Let  the  boat  be  unmoored,  and  be  muffled  the  oar, 

And  we'll  steal  into  Heaven  together. 
If  the  Angel  on  duty  our  coming  descries, 
You  have  nothing  to  do  but  throw  off  the  disguise 

That  you  wore  while  you  wandered  with  me, 
And  the  Sentry  shall  say,  "  Welcome  back  to  the  skies; 

We  have  long  been  a-waitinsr  for  thee." 


PLOUGHSHARES  AND  SORROWS.         41 

Oh  I  how  sweetly  she  spoke,  ere  she  uttered  a  word, 

"With  that  blush,  partly  hers,  partly  Even's, 
And  that  tone,  like  the  dream  of  a  song  we  once  heard, 

As  she  whispered,  'That  way  is  not  Heaven's ; 
For  the  River  that  runs  by  the  realm  of  the  Blest 
Has  no  song  on  its  ripple,  no  star  on  its  breast — 

Oh  !  that  Paver  is  nothing  like  this ! 
For  it  glides  on  in  shadow,  beyond  the  world's  west, 

Till  it  breaks  into  beauty  and  bliss.' 

I  am  lingering  yet,  but  I  linger  alone, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  Paver. 
Tis  the  twin  of  that  day,  but  the  wave  where  it  shone, 

Bears  the  willow  tree's  shadow  for  ever ! 


GREAT  grief  in  the  clover  just  now,  and  every  body 
but  "Rachel,  weeping  for  her  children."  For  a  few 
days  past,  they  have  kept  a  thing,  a  machine,  a  mon 
ster,  going  in  the  Clover  Field,  that  they  call  a  "  break- 
ing-up  plough,"  and  it  is  well  named  for  an  ill  business ; 
inasmuch  as  it  interferes  with  more  domestic  arrange 
ments,  and  destroys  more  domestic  happiness  and  hopes, 
than  "  Consuelo  "  or  the  Last  War — in  fact,  it  breaks 
up  whole  families. 

•% 

Talk  about  "  beating  swords  into  ploughshares !" 


42  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

If  this  identical  implement  had  been  turned  into  a 
dozen  good  broad-swords,  in  these  "  piping  times  of 
peace,"  it  would  have  hastened  the  Millennium,  at 
least  one  generation,  in  the  Meadow  back  of  the 
Orchard. 

What  John  Rogers-like  families  of  infant  mice  were 
orphaned ;  what  snug  and  cozy  little  homes  were 
destroyed,  no  body  can  tell.  If  all  ploughmen  were 
poets,  and  all  poets  were  Burns-es,  and  all  Buxns-es 
had  sung, 

"  But,  mousie,  thou  art  not  alane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  ; 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy," 

it  wouldn't  mend  the  matter ;  it  wouldn't  turn  back 
the  turf,  nor  restore  the  wee  ones  to  their  "  mither  " 
again. 

Two  of  the  beautifully  dappled  eggs  of  the  Meadow 
lark  were  brought  in  by  one  of  the  '  boys,'  this  morn 
ing,  thus  left  without  "  a  local  habitation  ;"  furnish 
ing,  so  it  seems  to  us,  an  admirable  escapement  for 
the  overflowing  philanthropy  that  renders  so  many 
people  so  very  miserable.  Wmddrit  "  a  nest  for  the 
nestless "  society  be  just  the  thing !  And  if  some- 


PLOUGHSHARES  AND  SORROWS.         43 

body,  whose  sympathies  have  been  "  wool-gathering  " 
at  the  sources  of  the  White  Nile,  would  volunteer  to — 
I  feel  a  delicacy  about  suggesting  it — to — to  hatch 
the  eggs  aforesaid,  two  innocents  would  be  spared  an 
untimely  fate.  They  are  wrapped  in  cotton-wool, 
awaiting  orders.  "  References  exchanged." 

Fire  has  also  been  called  into  requisition,  to  finish 
the  work   commenced   by  the   share.      Hard   by  a 
brush-heap,  a  duail  had  hidden  her  summer  hopes — 
sixteen  spotless  eggs — a  cup  full   of  pearls ;    within 
which,  ere  long,   "  Spiritual  Rappings "   should  be 
heard,  and  a  brood  of  life  emerge,  and  skulk  away, 
each  with  his  cradle  of  a  shell  upon  his  back.     The 
sad  story  is  soon  told ;  they  set  fire  to  the  pile,  that 
was  to  become  a  funeral-pyre ;    the  brush  sparkled 
and  blazed,  the  logs  kindled  and  glowed,  but  the  bird, 
Phoanix-like,  sat  upon  her  nest.     The  flames  surged 
around  her,  but  when  the  dark  volumes  of  smoke 
lifted,  '  our  bird  was  still  there.'     The  red  fire  at  last, 
drove  over  the  nest ;  the  very  straws  were  lighted,  and 
the  mother  whirled  despairingly  away  with  a  cry  of 
anguish,   and  was  seen  no  more.      Many  a  heart 
heaves  the  twin  billows  of  Circassian  bosoms  to-day, 
neither  so  true  nor  so  wrung,  as  the  little  morsel  of 
irritable  muscle  in  the  breast  of  that  duail  mother 


44  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Many  a  marble  lias  been  graven  and  set  up  over  less 
worth.  Many  an  eloquent  tribute  has  been  paid  to 
the  memory  of  a  less  melancholy  fate. 


WHO  talks  of  arsenals  and  armories — of  Colt's 
Revolvers  and  "  Dupont's  best,"  when,  on  this  quiet 
farm,  in  this  peaceful  neighborhood,  where  every  body 
believes  in  the  New  Dispensation,  Elihu  Burritt,  and 
Universal  Brotherhood,  there  are  more  weapons  of 
war,  aggressive  and  defensive,  than  ever  followed  the 
Roman  Eagles  to  conquest  ? 

Why,  you  can  meet  any  where,  gentlemen  in  black, 
who  wear  rapiers,  that  are  whipped  out  upon  cause 
the  slightest  —  I  always  give  them  a  wide  berth  — 
and  whole  communities  of  individuals,  engaged  in 
"  the  SUGAR  trade,"  to  say  nothing  of  "  the  cotton 
line,"  that  carry  blades,  Toledo-tempered  every  one 
of  them,  and  make  nothing  of  using  them  too. 

Under  that  pile  of  plank,  boards  a  WATCHMAN,  one 
of  Nature's  own  "  Charlies,"  springing  a  rattle  that 
"  Old  Hays  "  would  have  patented,  and  flourishing  a 
case  of  lancets  that  Cooper  would  have  coveted. 


"  OUR   DEFENCES."  45 

Chivalry  is  here  ;  for  gallant  knights  in  long  spurs, 
stalk  about  the  yards,  and  challenge  each  other  from 
the  tops  of  the  fences.  A  genius  crept  out  of  the 
grass  yesterday,  with  shield  and  breast-plate,  like  an 
old  Roman.  It  was,  as  if  one  should  invert  a  huge 
shell  card-basket,  give  it  a  serpent's  head,  an  ele 
phant's  feet,  and  a  lizard's  "  continuation,"  inscribe  it 
all  over  with  Chinese  characters,  and  "  let  it  run." 

Every  evening,  a  Worthy  of  the  QUILL  comes  rus 
tling  out  from  under  the  barn;  quills  behind  his  ears  ; 
quills  under  his  arms  ;  in  fact,  a  back-load  of  quills. 
A  very  pungent,  pointed  author  is  he,  with  his 
quills  ;  has  talent  for  a  modern  critic,  would  work  for 
his  board,  and  ought  to  be  encouraged. 

Go  "  across  lots  "  to  CHARLES',  and  you  will  catch 
glimpses  of  pairs  of  little  heels  without  owners, 
twinkling  in  every  direction :  GOPHERS  going  for 
quarters.  Unfitted  for  a  field  fight,  too  weak  for  a 
sortie,  they  are  prepared  to  stand  a  siege  in  their  sub 
terranean  fastnesses.  Set  your  Sappers  and  Miners 
to  unearth  the  Garrison,  and  they  will  find  the  fortress 
deserted  and  the  Gophers  gone;  for  they  have  a 
proverb  among  them — those  Gophers — that  has  been 
rudely  translated  into  English,  thus:  "There  are 
more  ways  than  one." 


46 


JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 


Do  you  see  that  glitter  between  the  trees  ?  It's  a 
magnificent  trinket,  of  which  Nature  has  left  a  num 
ber  hereabouts.  It's  a  mirror,  and  how  it  came  here, 
and  all  about  it,  is,  as  nearly  as  any  body  knows,  in 
this  wise.  Some  day  or  other,  NATURE  made  her 
toilet  here,  preparatory  to  going  out  upon  the  Prai 
ries  ;  and  while  she  was  arranging  her  hair,  putting 
on  her  flowered  sandals,  and  letting  down  her  broidered 
skirts,  that  she  had  gathered  up  as  she  crossed  the 
Alleghanies,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Prairie  she 
had  come  to  smile  on,  and  forgot  she  was  in  disha 
bille,  and  left  her  "things" — mirrors,  and  flounces, 
and  furbelows,  and  all — scattered  about,  and  never 
thought  of  them  again,  for  away  she  tripped  and 
smiled. 

Well,  that  glitter  you  see,  is  one  of  the  "aids  to 
reflection"  she  threw  aside  as  she  ran,  and  it  was 
shattered  into  ever  so  many  beautiful  fragments,  and 
among  them  is  PINE  LAKE,  where,  "an  you  will,"  we 
are  this  very  instant.  It's  a  sunny  day ;  we,  upon 
the  margin  of  the  Lake ;  the  water,  crystal ;  you, 
looking  down.  And  looking,  you  see,  lying  motion 
less,  a  NAVIGATOR,  older  than  Noah  or  Jason,  or  any 
of  those  "  outside  barbarians ;"  a  sailor  whose  fore- 
fishes  were  literally  of  '  the  first  water.' 


"  OUH    DEFENCES."  47 

Gaily  attired,  isn't  he  ? — in  a  close-fitting  suit  of 
three-cent  pieces,  with  a  row  of  gold  dollars  on  each 
side,  all  laid  over  and  over.  Your  shadow  lies  along 
the  water  ;  move  a  little,  and  you'll  see  that  the 
fellow's  Defences  are  altogether  with  Valor's  wife, 
his  "  better  part,"  Discretion.  But  first,  lest  you  can 
not,  a  moment  hence,  see  that  oar  lying  carelessly 
over  the  stern  of  the  silvery  craft.  Now  move. 
There  !  Wasn't  that  a  specimen  of  scientific  '  scull 
ing  !'  Just  a  flash  or  two,  like  a  little  scimetar, 
and  Navigator,  three-cent  pieces,  oars  and  all  are  out 
of  sight  like  a  Nautilus,  without  a  "  Clearance,"  a 
signal,  a  "  by  your  leave,"  or  anything  of  the  sort. 

Speaking  of  Signals  :  there's  some  body  creeping 
through  the  grass,  every  night,  with  a  lantern,  and 
there  are  more  than  one  of  them — both  bodies  and 
lanterns  ;  and  it's  either  love  or  war  ;  a  battle-lan 
tern  or  a  love-light,  and  it  makes  little  difference 
which  :  they  may  be  skirmishing,  they  are  certainly 
'  sparking'  The  GLOW  WORM  is  the  owner  of  that 
light,  and,  little  brown  creature  as  it  is,  it  has  a  rare 
and  beautiful  possession — finding,  may  be,  its  way 
through  the  night ;  signalling,  it  maybe,  the  "Allied 
Powers,"  in  some  tremendous  war  that  "  John  S.  C. 
Abbott  "  never  heard  of;  seeking,  perhaps,  its  mate. 


48  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

There's  a  black  bug,  homely  as  sin.  Catch  him, 
and  he  gives  you  a  glimpse  of  a  diamond  he  is  carry 
ing  about  him  ;  and  you  spare  him,  of  course,  because 
he  is  one  of  Night  and  Nature's  jewellers.  How 
gallantly  he  '  shows  a  light,'  in  the  offing  over  the 
marsh.  On  the  starboard,  the  larboard  ;  to  wind 
ward,  to  leeward  ;  alow  and  aloft.  But  the  dawn 
steals  on,  and  the  great  stars  and  the  little  bug  toge 
ther,  "  pale  their  ineffectual  fires." 

The  first  two  "  signs  " — if  any  body  will  credit  it — 
have  slipped  the  halter  of  the  Zodiac,  and  ARIES  and 
TAURUS  are  lords  of  the  pasture,  trumpeters  of  flock 
and  herd,  with  two  horns  a-piece.  A  slight  accident 
to  the  mason-work  about  Jericho,  recorded  in  Bible 
History,  having  been  particularly  impressed  upon  my 
mind,  I  pay  special  attention  to  Geography,  as  defined 
by  a  very  devious  rail  fence,  and  take  good  care  to 
keep  on  this  side  of  it,  confessing  to  no  pencJiant  for 
swelling  a  concordance,  by  figuring  in  a  "  parallel 
passage." 

So  it  is,  every  where,  with  every  thing.  Armed  cap- 
a-pie,  and  if  not  armed,  supplied  with  some  means 
of  evasion,  disguise  or  retreat.  This  moment,  a  fellow 
of  the  BEETLE  tribe  comes  hurtling  through  the  air, 
tumbling  about  in  the  candle-light,  blundering  against 


"  OUR    DEFENCES."  49 

walls  and  windows,  with  his  everlasting  hum-drum  of 
wings,  like  a  bee  in  a  hollyhock.  And  what  do  you 
think  he's  done  ?  Caught  up  a  pair  of  tongs  and 
joined  in  the  grand  melee  !  There  he  goes,  if  you 
don't  believe  it,  the  tongs  thrust  out  in  front  of  him, 
wide  open,  and  ready  to  come  lovingly  together  with 
a  will.  Try  him,  if  you  doubt  it. 

"  Tr-tr-trr-rt-rt-rrt .'"  There's  a  watchword,  or 
a  pass- word  from  that  cherry  tree  ;  and  where  is  the 
little  Look-out  ?  On  that  leaf  "  with  a  strange  de 
vice."  By  St.  Patrick  !  'tis  a  TOAD  in  disguise  ! 
Nothing  like  the  salient  chap  in  a  dusty  leather  round 
about,  that  takes  position  nightly  on  the  '  outside 
cellar  door,'  but  a  gay  fellow.  Break  the  limb,  gen 
tly — so  ;  and  you  have  him  exactly  under  your  eye. 
His  delicate  white  kid  throat  works  like  a  little  bel 
lows.  His  back — just  the  color  of  the  leaf  he  lies 
on,  and  how  beautifully  varnished  ! — four  or  five 
coats,  shouldn't  you  think?  His  sides — a  specimen 
of  imitation  of  woods,  that  might  deceive  Leather 
Stocking  himself.  His  eyes — overlaid  round  about 
with  gold-leaf,  and  warranted  never  to  tarnish.  In 
visible  in  his  Kendall  green,  (if  it  be  Kendall,)  he 
uses  those  compound  levers  of  his,  and  leaps  from 
tree  to  tree  and  bough  to  bough,  prophesying,  in  a 


50  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

small  way,  of  clouds  and  rain,  and  such  like,  and 
answering  from  out  the  rustling  green,  to  his  fellow. 

What  then  are  your  Springfield  Armory,  your  Paix- 
hans,  and  even  your  floating  walls  of  wood,  to  the 
arms  and  munitions  of  war  strown  about  this  quiet 
farm  ?  What  shields  and  helmets  !  what  coats  of 
mail  and  disguises !  what  broadswords  and  rapiers ! 
what  signals  and  war-cries  !  what  prowess  and  strata 
gem  are  here  !  In  the  grass,  the  bushes  the  earth  ; 
on  trees,  fences,  every  where  !  Who  will  not  say,  that 
in  comparison  with  "  OUR  DEFENCES,"  all  the  devices 
of  your  cunning  workers  in  iron  and  in  steel,  are 
children's  idle  toys  ! 


DON'T  say  a  word  till  I'm  done.  You'll  waste  an 
invoice  of  indignation  that  were  better  saved,  if  you 
do;  and  besides,  it  wouldn't  be  "  manners."  I  am  no 
resurrectionist ;  and  if  I  do  dig  for  a  "  subject,"  I 
don't  find  it  in  a  cemetery  nor  put  it  in  a  sack,  but 
just  take  the  head — mind  !  the  head — as  Herodiaa 
did,  and  serve  it  up,  not  on  a  platter,  but  on  a  paper, 
•"»  TT«"™V«-a  didn't.  Takinor  a  hoe  this  morning,  (could 


DIGGING    FOR   A    "  SUBJECT."  51 

find  no  spade  but  the  ace,)  I  exhumed  a  TOADESS,  per 
haps  a  widow,  living  all  by  herself,  in  underground 
lodgings,  as  widows  have  done,  and  will  do,  again 
and  again,  till  there  is  no  such  thing  as  widowdom  in 
the  world.  She  had  two  nice  little  apartments,  but 
not  much  to  speak  of  in  the  way  of  furniture.  I 
confess  to  a  twinge  or  two,  after  the  mischief  was 
done  ;  but  Sir  Christopher  Wren  could  not  have  re 
stored  the  structure,  so  I  concluded  to  "  sin  no  more," 
took  the  hoe  "  trail  arms,"  and  returned  penitent. 

You  read  History  ?  Oh,  of  course  !  but  I  don't 
mean  Gibbon,  or  Hume  or  Bancroft ;  nothing  bound 
in  calf  or  Turkey,  that  one  reads  between  naps, 
lying  along  sofas ;  that  reviewers  take  as  texts  for 
their  learning,  and  every  body  grows  wise  over.  Oh, 
no !  But  such  history  as  you  dig  out  with  a  hoe, 
throw  out  with  a  shovel,  pry  out  with  a  lever,  cut 
out  with  an  axe,  watch  for  in  the  woods,  or  climb 
after  in  the  mountains.  Loose  leaves  of  great,  un 
bound  volumes,  lying  about  this  earth  ;  sometimes 
packed  away,  and  sometimes  fluttering  in  the  wind ; 
volumes  bearing  the  imprint  of  the  Almighty  ;  leaves 
damp  from  the  press  of  Creation  ;  lithographs  older 
than  the  rock  of  Plymouth  ;  paintings  newer  than 
June  roses. 


52  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

In  the  burglary  I  have  owned  to,  I  found  fragments 
of  stone  ;  unquestionably  an  ARMORY,  long  ago  de 
serted,  and  its  existence  forgotten.  In  it  were  packed 
away,  thousands  of  lunar-shaped  shields,  bearing  evi 
dent  marks  of  having  seen  much  service  ;  armor,  as 
appears  from  records  extant,  worn  by  warriors  who 
fought  and  fell  before  Cajsar  thought  of  his  "  Com 
mentaries,"  or  the  World  of  Caesar.  Housewives 
convert  this  same  armor  to  the  ignoble  purpose  of 
polishing  brass  andirons  and  Britannia  tea-urns,  and 
degrade  it  with  their  christening,  "Rotten  Stone!" 
Think  of  using  Washington's  sword  to  scrape  a 
trencher  ;  wetting  up  meal  for  chickens  in  Marmion's 
helmet,  or  covering  a  coop  with  the  shield  of  Achilles  ! 
And  what  better  is  this  robbing  and  desecrating  the 
WESTMINSTER  of  some  nation,  not  nameless  because 
we  think  so,  and  bearing  away  the  relics  of  older 
warriors,  and  who  knows  but  better,  to  replenish  '  the 
stock  in  trade'  of  kitchens  and  coal-holes?  "To 
what  base  uses  may  we  come  at  last !" 

Proof-sheets  of  great  works  on  Entomology  and 
Conchology  are  scattered  about  here,  lithographed  by 
a  Master  :  leaves  whose  like  has  not  fluttered  in 
morning  air  for  centuries;  flowers  that  have  not  scented 
evening  sighs  since  the  days  of  Paradise  ;  all  there 


DIGGING   FOR   A    "  SUBJECT."  53 

in  the  stone  ;  not  a  fibre  or  filament  wanting,  not  a 
thread  drawn  from  the  delicate  texture. 

The  running  brook  by  the  mill  was  making  HIS 
TORY,  don't  you  think  ? — when  it  left  its  old  channel, 
dim,  dumb  and  dusty,  and  meandered  a  new  artery 
in  the  bosom  of  Earth.  It  is  making  History,  when 
rounding  and  polishing  the  pebbles,  those  chronome 
ters  of  the  hours  since  its  journey  and  carol  began. 
It  is  revising  History,  when  it  sweeps  away  the  vete 
ran  "  witnesses  "  of  old  surveys,  that  marked  the 
boundaries  of  battle-fields  and  the  metes  of  kingdoms. 
It  is  restoring  History,  when  it  clears  away  the  sand 
from  rock  bearing  the  legible  foot-prints  of  a  race 
whose  legendary  form  and  fame  had  faded  from  the 
lidless  eye  of  Time — 

"  Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  Life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  ship-wreck'd  brother, 
Seeing,  may  take  heart  again." 

An  OAK  felled,  the  other  day,  in  "  the  heavy  tim 
ber,"  close  by,  had  been  making  History  these  three 
hundred  years,  with  its  three  hundred  concentric 
rings  ;  swept,  every  one,  with  the  widening  compasses 
of  vegetable  life  ;  every  one  a  symbol  of  a  circling 
year.  And  they  rived  into  rails  this  veteran  Histo- 


54  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

rian,  that  commenced  his  work  before  the  frozen  germ 
of  New-England  drifted  into  the  dead  of  December 
in  the  cup  of  a  May  Flower  !  What  Goth  or  Vandal 
migrated  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New  ? 

Dig  a  ditch,  and  you  cut  the  untrimmed  leaves  of 
the  Archives  of  the  World.  Climb  a  hill,  and  in 
undulating  plains,  and  swelling  heights,  and  deep- 
graved  vales,  the  prospect  reveals  the  basso  relievo 
of  ocean  ;  the  sculpture  of  billows  that  died,  time 
out  of  mind,  along  sands  ;  sands  that  turned  to  stone; 
stone  that  was  hewn  into  temples;  temples  that  mould 
ered  to  dust ;  dust  that  was  flung  to  the  winds  ;  winds 
that  swelled  the  sails  of  the  Argonauts.  And  the 
SCULPTURE  ?  The  Sculpture  is  there  still ! 

By  the  evidence  of  three  pickaxes  and  a  shovel, 
there  is  something  in  the  earth,  besides  sassafras  and 
silver,  ginseng  and  gold.  Now,  Poetry  is  a  great  deal 
more  like  "  Roots  and  Herbs  "  than  people  generally 
suppose,  perhaps.  Every  verb  has  a  root,  and  verbs 
are  the  great  staple  in  epic  poetry,  for  the  action — 
that's  the  Verb — "  the  play's  the  thing  :"  so  the  Iliad 
is  as  full  of  roots  as  a  potato  patch.  It  will  not  seem 
so  very  strange  then,  that  Poetry  has  been  digged 
from  the  earth  with  a  shovel ;  poetry  that  Homer 
never  matched — and  when  one  has  said  Homer,  he 


DIGGING    FOR   A    "  SUBJECT."  55 

has  said  all  ;  and  there  it  stands  yet,  a  solitary  line, 
and  not  a  couplet.  A  line  expressed  hy  the  human 
hand  ;  a  thought  at  whose  -utterance  the  tongue  fal 
tered  and  the  pen  failed  ;  and  this  was  the  sentiment : 
Let  the  gray  ATLANTIC  wed  the  wave  of  blue  ERIE. 
And  this  was  all ;  hut  little  as  it  was,  Alexandrian 
Libraries  could  not  contain  its  full  expression.  The 
proud  Doge  of  Venice  takes  the  Adriatic  Sea  to  be 
his  bride,  and  drops  into  her  bosom,  a  rich  gold  ring 
in  token ;  but  here  was  a  greater  thought  waiting 
utterance.  Aye,  waiting  utterance  !  for  though  the 
Orator  had  rounded  it  into  his  periods,  and  the  Bard 
had  sung  of  it,  they  had  not  spoken  it :  it  was  not 
sung !  The  linen  from  a  thousand  looms  could  not 
make  a  sheet  broad  enough  for  its  record ;  the  press 
was  not  built  that  could  print  it ;  and  so  its  Author 
wrote  it — that  one  line — across  the  broad  breast  of 
the  "  Empire  State."  Wrote  it  with  spade  and  mat 
tock  -,  blasted  it  out  with  powder  ;  lifted  it  out  with 
crowbars.  Then,  idle  rills  that  did  nothing  but 
sparkle  and  run,  were  woven  into  a  strong,  broad 
strand — a  crystal  tie — and  flung  like  a  ribbon,  from 
Erie  to  the  Main  !  Noble  "  decoration"  for  the  breast 
of  New- York ! 

He — that  Author — had  carved  out  a  River.     He 


56  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

had  woven  its  waters  of  the  skeins  of  brooks.  He 
had  wedded  the  twain.  He  had  conceived  and 
uttered  a  thought.  And  there  it  was,  in  one  great, 
glorious  line,  of  a  poem  yet  to  be  completed,  when 
some  Milton,  gifted  with  the  eloquence  of  the  hand, 
shall  spurn  the  cradle  of  some  coming  Age. 

Is  it  any  less  a  line,  that  it  was  traced  upon  the 
green  and  golden  scroll  of  the  globe  ?  Any  less  a 
sentiment,  that  it  was  uttered  with  a  shovel  ?  And 
he,  CLINTON  !  is  he  not  as  much  an  author,  as  if, 
occupying  an  apartment  walled  in  with  learned  non 
sense,  he  had  written  upon  "  superfine  satin  post  ?" 

Ah !  if  the  Babel-cleft  world  ever  claim  a  com 
mon  tongue,  and  own  a  common  kindred,  it  will  be 
when  the  SAXON  HAND  shall  forge  a  great  dialect, 
needing  neither  lexicographer  nor  lexicon,  "  known 
and  read  of  all  men."  A  language  that  has  ringing 
hammers  and  jarring  wheels,  rustling  fields  and  har 
vest  songs,  for  accents.  When  the  sweet  Ionic  of  the 
Golden  Age  shall  no  longer  stand  unrivalled,  and 
man  shall  hail  "my  brother!"  around  the  globe, 
uttered  in  the  real,  living  eloquence  of  the  Educated 
Hand. 

Digging  a  line  of  poetry,  indeed !  They  shall  shovel 
out  whole  cantos  from  rich  loam;  they — every  body — 


RAILWAY   MAGIC.  57 

shall  carve  out  beauty  from  rock ;  forge  '  beati 
tudes'  in  furnaces ;  sow  hopes  in  fallow  fields,  and 
reap  joys  in  harvest. 


EVERY  day  the  whistle,  ring  and  jar,  that  grand 
trio  of  the  Age,  before  which  old  Minstrelsy  is  dumb, 
come  to  us  over  Clear  Lake  and  through  the  woods, 
from  the  M.  S.  and  N.  I.  R.  R. — as  many  initials  as 
Garrick  made  faces — a  whole  Alphabet — TRAIN.  It's 
a  luxury  that  costs  nothing — the  chime  of  a  mighty 
chronometer  we  hear — the  beat  of  great  pendulums 
swinging  through  their  iron  arcs,  East  and  West, 
Toledo  and  Chicago,  here  and  there ;  ticking  hours 
by  the  triplet  all  the  day  long.  We  set  the  clock  by 
the  shrill  whistle  of  the  iron  boatswain,  as  he  pipes 
"  all  aboard  "  at  La  Porte,  and  catch  ourselves  looking 
in  the  clear  sky  for  a  cloud,  when  the  iron-bound 
thunder  rolls  along  the  rails. 

There  are  a  thousand  things  that  every  body  sees, 
and  no  body  thinks  of ;  witchery,  if  you  will  have  it 
so  ;  wonders,  whether  you  will  or  not.  No  more  po 
tent  Charmer  ever  dwelt  in  "  the  drowsy  East,"  than 


58  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

DISTANCE,  and  especially  if  it  has  MOTION  for  a  hand 
maid.  Its  enchantments  are  not  merely  those  of  a 
Costumer,  draping  mountains  in  azure,  and  "  such 
like." 

A  wave  of  its  wand,  and  presto,  magical  changes 
are  wrought,  that  would  have  kept  that  incorrigible 
Sultan — if  he  was  a  Sultan — a  "thousand  and  one 
nights  "  longer,  with  the  hearing. 

Did  you  ever  creep  gingerly — should  there  he  an 
other  "ly"  to  the  gingerly? — up  to  the  deck  of  a 
Railway  Car,  when  the  train  was  moving,  say  twen 
ty-five  or  thirty  miles  an  hour  ?  And  did  you  look 
away  on,  heyond  the  Train,  where  the  two  iron  bars — 
that  noblest  couplet  in  the  great  epic  of  the  time — 
were  welded  lovingly  together,  without  hammer,  or  fur 
nace,  or  fire,  but  just  beneath  the  wonderful,  invisible 
fingers  of  Distance,  till  they  lay  there,  a  huge  V  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  Prairie  ?  And  how  marvellously, 
as  the  Train  moved  on,  those  stubborn  bars  swayed 
round  to  a  parallel ;  as  lightly  and  noiselessly  as  a 
brace  of  sunbeams,  flung  from  a  mirror  swinging 
in  the  wanton  wind,  sweep  round  in  the  blue  air? 
And  did  you  "mind" — not  a  spike  wrenched  from  its 
good  hold,  not  a  tie  ww-tied,  not  a  timber  splintered  ? 
There  must  be  a  charm  in  those  fingers  indeed. 


RAILWAY   MAGIC.  59 

There  now,  a  brood  of  little  haycocks,   escaped 

from  their  native  meadow,  have  clustered  down  on 

« 
the  track,  right  before  the  Engine.     Heedless  little 

things !  But  age  will  bring  wisdom,  and  one  of  these 
days,  they'll  bo  discreet  haystacks,  and  not  go  gossip 
ing  upon  Railroad  tracks.  Will  be  !  Why,  they  are 
getting  to  be  stacks  already.  From  Lilliput  to  the 
other  place — what  a  name  it  is  to  write  ! — is  but  a 
minute,  or  a  minute  and  a  half.  How  they  expand 
and  "  get  up  in  the  world  "  as  we  near  them.  And 
they  hear  the  Train,  for  see,  they  are  wheeling  in  a 
sort  of  Knickerbocker  waltz  to  the  right  and  left,  over 
the  fence  and  back  of  the  barn  and  beyond  the  or 
chard,  and  there  they  are,  dignified  and  imperturbable 
as  Haystacks  ought  to  be. 

And  those  little  Bushes — a  capital  B,  if  they  are 
bushes — exactly  in  the  way,  whispering  and  all  of  a 
flutter,  dodging  up  here,  and  nestling  down  there,  like 
truants  in  the  "Entry,"  during  school  hours.  On 
thunders  the  Train,  and  up  jump  the  Bushes. 

Bushes  indeed  ;  TREES,  forest  trees,  trees  of  a  cen 
tury;  columns  in  "God's  first  temples."  The  trees 
are  on  the  track ;  growing  on  the  track  !  On  the 
track  indeed.  By  the  holy  rood,  they  are  rods 


60  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

away,  just  where  they  were  before  Railways  were 
dreamed  of. 

And  the  worker  of  all  this  diablerie  !  You  can 
see  the  fluttering  of  her  blue  robe  just  there  in  the 
horizon.  She  has  gone  on  to  conjure  again.  It  is 
DISTANCE  ! 

"  Stop  the  Train  !  Let  us  off!  Conductor,  Captain, 
Some  body,  Any  body !"  There's  a  village  on  the 
Track ;  born,  christened,  and  grown  since  last  night. 
There's  a  Meeting  House  and  a  Grave  Yard  and  a 
Block  of  Stores  in  the  way  !  On  we  plunge — dis 
pelled  at  the  first  whistle !  The  Church  moves 
gravely  away,  as  churches  should.  The  Grave  Yard, 
with  its  sleeping  tenantry,  is  whisked  out  of  sight  like 
a  trundle-bed  ;  a  martin-box  of  a  cottage  scuds  round 
the  corner  of  the  Meeting  House ;  the  row  of  brick 
stores,  very  much  flushed,  steps  six  paces  to  the  rear ; 
the  cars  jar  on,  and  Distance  and  Motion  are  in  the 
secret. 

Look  behind  you,  and  they  are  adjusting  the  ma 
chinery  for  the  next  Train.  Back  goes  the  village 
that  had  been  frightened  away  by  the  whistle,  and 
the  stacks  and  the  trees  grow  "  beautifully  less,"  and 
so  it  is  every  day,  and  all  day  and  every  where,  when 
Distance  and  Motion  are  partners.  There's  a  some- 


RAILWAY   MAGIC.  61 

thing  on  the  track  again !  It's  a  fly — it's  a  frog — it's 
a  child — it's  a  man — six  feet  high — a  P.  M. — an  M. 
C.  On  we  go.  We  have  passed  him.  "We  have  left 
him.  Five  feet  high — four  feet  high — a  child — a 
frog — a  bug — a  nothing  !  "What  pranks  Distance  can 
play  with  man  and  his  dignities,  as  the  cars  drive 
rattling  on.  Your  D.  D.  is  dwindled  down  ;  your 
P.  M.  is  ^?ast  winding ;  your  M.  C.  is  microscopic 
curiosity. 

Sometimes,  a  little  village  parts  the  foliage  of  an 
"  Oak  Opening,"  and  peeps  out  to  see  the  train  go  by. 
Here  another  skulks  like  a  quail ;  you  catch  a  glimpse 
of  it  as  you  thunder  past,  and  one  cannot  help  thinking 
it  will  venture  forth  again  when  he  is  fairly  out  of 
eight.  A  third,  a  bold  vixen,  stands  beside  the  track 
waiting  for  the  cars.  You  whirl  by  a  fourth — houses 
set  down  any  where  and  very  uneasy,  as  if  just 
camped  for  the  night,  and  glad  to  move  "  westward 
ho  !"  in  the  morning. 

And  so  they  work  wonders — the  wonderful  Two — 
all  along  the  way,  slipping  hamlets,  towns,  marts, 
on  the  iron  string,  as  if  they  were  so  many  beads,  in 
a  necklace  for  a  Camanche's  wearing.  "Why,  one 
meets  six-rail  fences  every  day,  "  staked  and  ridered" 
at  that,  plunging  along  like  quarter  horses.  Strips 


62  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

of  narrow  yellow  ribbon  widen  into  broad  acres  of 
golden  grain ;  scattered  skeins  of  silk  Floss  are 
webbed  into  running  rivers  ;  paltry  patches  of  green, 
are  whole  "  sections  "  of  red  clover ;  little  out-door 
Ovens,  arched  Depots  of  two  hundred  feet ;  the  Rail 
way  itself,  in  the  magic  of  Distance,  seems  the 
double  scoring  of  the  beautiful  fields  and  lakes  and 
towns  along  which  those  lines  are  drawn,  that  the 
Compositor  may  '  set  them  up '  in  CAPITALS,  every 
one ;  and  the  Engine,  a  glossy  black  beetle  creeping 
over  the  disc  of  the  Prairies;  "  the  transit"  of  iron, 
that  Astronomers  never  foretold. 

Lo !  there,  "  the  breathing  thought," 

The  poets  sang  of  old, 
And  there  "  the  burning  -word," 

No  tongue  had  fully  told, 
Until  the  magic  hand, 

The  bold  conception  wrought, 
In  iron  and  in  fire  it  stands — 

The  world's  embodied  THOUGHT. 

Lo !  in  the  panting  thunders, 

Hear  the  echo  of  the  Age ! 
Lo  !  in  the  globe's  broad  breast,  behold 

The  poet's  noblest  page ! 
For  in  the  brace  of  iron  bars, 

That  weld  two  worlds  in  one, 
The  couplet  of  a  nobler  lay 

Than  bards  have  e'er  begun  I 


RAILWAY   MAGIC.  63 

But  there  are  points  in  sight  of  the  dull  port  of 
Earth,  whence  your  pendulums  and  plungings  would 
be  motionless  as  the  pulse  of  the  dead — swing  as 
they  might,  through  tremendous  arcs,  with  a  Radius 
that  would  curve  around  the  WORLD,  they  would  be 
motionless  still,  as  the  caldrons  that  bubble  amid  the 
Maples  in  March — points,  whence  the  leaves  in  the 
book  of  Time  seem  strangely  displaced,  and  June 
and  December — blank  leaf  and  Vignette — flutter  side 
by  side.  June  and  December  !  A  synonyme  for  an 
arc  of  one  hundred  and  ninety  millions  of  miles — an 
arc,  that  woven  into  a  blue  scarf  for  earth,  could  be 
flung  over  it  from  Ursa  Major  to  the  Southern  Cross — 
could  bind  it  in  a  true  love-knot  to  the  Flag-star 
of  Even ;  could  flutter  a  fringe  in  the  blaze  of  the 
Sun,  and  leave  signals,  aye,  and  badges  beside,  for  all 
the  Engineers  that  ever  carried  a  "  field-book,"  or 
sported  a  Theodolite. 


64  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 


0f 


DAY  broke  in  thunder,  this  morning.  There  was  a 
crashing  of  spars  and  a  roaring  of  great  guns  round 
the  horizon;  and  blasts  of  music  drifting  with  the 
downy  clouds  ;  a  brood  of  summer  showers  '  came 
off  '  and  filled  the  sky  ;  and  triumphal  arches  were 
heaved  up  on  the  great  '  leverage  '  of  the  Sun.  It's 
the  FOURTH  OF  JULY  :  the  day  they  brought  the  iron 
cradle  home,  wherein  to  rock  young  LIBERTY  ;  the 
day  when  the  whisper  breathed  beneath  the  shadow 
of  "King's  Mountain"  in  the  "old  North  State," 
went  crashing  in  echoes  round  the  entire  world  — 

Oh  !  wild  was  that  dawning  !  No  welcome  of  words, 

No  star  to  foretell  it  —  no  warbling  of  birds  — 

No  fading  of  shadows  —  no  murmur  of  rills  — 

No  flashing  of  pinions  —  no  flushing  of  hills  ; 

But  the  day  broke  in  thunder  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea, 

And  from  cloud  and  from  shroud,  rang  the  song  of  the  Free. 

Oh  !  that  song  of  wrought  iron  no  bard  could  have  made, 

With  its  surging  of  banner  and  gleaming  of  blade  ; 

With  its  column  of  cloud,  and  its  pillar  of  flame, 

And  the  clods  'neath  the  dead,  turned  the  color  of  fame  I 

Wonderfully  rare  were  the  trinkets  strown  about  that 
cradle  ;  the 

Land  of  the  vale,  the  viol,  and  the  vine, 


FOURTH    OF    JULY.  65 

flung  over  the  water  a  snowy  lily  from  the  gardens 
of  FRANCE  ;  old  HOLLAND  sent  a  plume,  plucked  from 
the  bleeding  breast  of  her  own  Stork ;  WOMAN  wove 
a  banner  "without  spot  or  wrinkle  ;"  the  FOREST  up 
rooted  an  evergreen  Pine  for  token ;  the  MOUNTAIN 
chained  an  Eagle,  right  from  his  rocky  eyrie,  for  em 
blem;  HEAVEN  cast  down  a  handful  of  stars — a 
dozen  and  one — for  the  Flag  that  lay  there  ;  and  GOD 
gave  wranuffled  drums  for  hearts,  and  right  for  the 
strong  arm. 

It  is  the  Fourth  of  July  all  over  the  Farm :  Four 
Blue  Birds  shook  off  their  allegiance  this  morning  ; 
two  Robins  declared  themselves  "free  and  independ 
ent,"  of  the  parent  nest ;  two  colonies  of  bees  went 
out  from  the  old  Hives.  A  battalion  of  red-birds 
paraded  in  full  uniform  ;  a  Jay  in  a  jaunty  cap  pro 
nounced  an  Oration  from  a  rocking  spray  in  the  Or- ' 
chard;  the  winds  and  the  woods  played  a  grand 
anthem;  the  roses  made  a  prayer,  and  "Jemmy" 
sang  a  song.  The  Bobolinks  rang  little  bells  all  day ; 
Ceres  marshaled  her  corn,  rustling  in  silks,  and  gay 
with  tassels ;  the  bearded  grain  was  out  in  its  gold ; 
fireworks  blazed  at  night  over  the  meadow;  and 
isn't  it  the  Fourth  of  July  all  over  the  Farm  ? 

It's  the  Fourth  of  July  all  over  the  World.    The 


66  JANUAIIY   AND   JUNE. 

Gold-digger  rests  his  "  wash-bowl  on  his  knee,"  and 
all  at  once  he  remembers  it's  the  Fourth  of  July ; 
the  orient  Wanderer  pauses  beneath  a  palm,  wipes 
his  brow,  and  thinks,  "Its  the  Fourth  of  July  at 
home."  The  Mariner  on  his  rocking  deck,  where 
pipes  Cape  Horn  through  frozen  shrouds,  or  where 
his  bows  plough  the  snowy  surf  of  northern  night, 
bethinks  him  it's  the  Fourth  of  July — his  trumpet  is 
to  his  lip,  and  up  main-mast  and  mizzen  run  the 
streamers,  and  from  '  the  fore '  shakes  out  the  Bunt 
ing;  and  isn't  it  the  Fourth  of  July  all  over  the 
World? 

"  God  bless  our  Stars  for  ever !" 

Thus  the  Angels  sang  sublime, 
When  round  God's  forges  fluttered  fast, 

The  sparks  of  starry  Time  I 
When  they  fanned  them  with  their  pinions, 

Till  they  kindled  into  day, 
And  revealed  Creation's  bosom, 

Where  the  infant  Eden  lay. 

"God  bless  our  stars  for  ever!" 

Thus  they  sang — the  seers  of  old, 
When  they  beckoned  to  the  Morning, 

Through  the  Future's  misty  fold ; 
When  they  waved  the  wand  of  wonder — 

When  they  breathed  the  magic  word, 
And  the  pulses'  golden  glimmer, 

Showed  the  waking  Granite  heard 


FOURTH   OF   JULY.  67 

"  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever  I" 

'Tis  the  burden  of  the  song, 
Where  the  sail  through  hollow  midnight 

Is  nickering  along ; 
When  a  ribbon  of  blue  Heaven 

Is  a-gleaming  through  the  clouds, 
With  a  star  or  two  upon  it, 

For  the  sailor  in  the  shrouds! 

"  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever  1" 

It  is  LIBERTY'S  refrain, 
From  the  snows  of  wild  Nevada 

To  the  sounding  woods  of  Maine ; 
Where  the  green  Multnomah  wanders, 

Where  the  Alabama  rests, 
Where  the  Thunder  shakes  his  turban 

Over  Alleghany's  crests. 

Where  the  mountains  of  New-England 

Mock  Atlantic's  stormy  main, 
Where  God's  palm  imprints  the  Prairie 

With  the  type  of  Heaven  again — 
Where  the  mirrored  morn  is  dawning, 

Link  to  Link,  our  Lakes  along, 
And  Sacramento's  Golden  Gate 

Swinging  open  to  the  song — 

There  and  there  1  "  Our  stars  for  ever  1" 

How  it  echoes !     How  it  thrills ! 
Blot  that  banner  ?    Why,  they  bore  it 

When  no  sunset  bathed  the  hills. 
Now  over  BDNKEB,  see  it  billow, 

Now  at  BENNINGTON  it  waves, 
TICONDEROGA  swells  beneath, 

And  SAEATOGA'S  graves ! 


68  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

Oh  1  long  ago  at  LEXINGTON, 

And  above  those  minute-men, 
The  "  Old  Thirteen  "  were  blazing  bright — 

There  were  only  thirteen  then! 
God's  OWN  stars  are  gleaming  through  it — 

Stars  not  woven  in  its  thread ; 
Unfurl  it,  and  that  flag  will  glitter 

"With  the  Heaven  overhead. 

Oh!  it  waved  above  the  Pilgrims, 

On  the  pinions  of  the  prayer ; 
Oh !  it  billowed  o'er  the  battle, 

On  the  surges  of  the  air; 
Oh !  the  stars  have  risen  in  it, 

Till  the  Eagle  waits  the  Sun, 
And  FREEDOM  from  her  mountain  watch 

Has  counted  "  Thirty-one." 

When  the  weary  Years  are  halting, 

In  the  mighty  march  of  Time, 
And  no  New  ones  throng  the  threshold 

Of  its  corridors  sublime  ; 
"When  the  clarion  call, /'close  up!" 

Rings  along  the  line  no  more, 
Then  adieu,  thou  blessed  Banner, 

Then  adieu,  and  not  before  I 


IT    RAINS.  69 


"  ONE  day  with  another,  they  are  pretty  much 
alike."  It's  a — no  such  thing,  if  every  body  a'most 
docs  say  it.  This  Every-body's  a  iVb-body,  and  has 
just  such  an  idea  of  days,  as  Wordsworth's  man  had 

of  Primroses : 

"A  Primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

A  yellow  Primrose  was  to  him, 

And  it  was  nothing  more." 

So  a  day  to  this  "  E very-body,"  is  something  hot  or 
dry,  or  wet  or  cold,  or  something  else,  but  "  nothing 
more." 

Of  all  days,  give  me  rainy  ones  for  memory  and 
meditation.  They  some  how  soften  the  mental  sur 
face,  trampled  and  trodden  down  by  many-footed 
interest,  and  let  the  buried  germs  of  the  past,  and 
the  half-forgotten,  up  through  the  parched  and  indu 
rated  soil — germs  bursting  into  the  beauty  of  the 
days  that  are  no  more — flowers  of  the  heart,  that 
though  it  be  a  rock,  cling  around  its  clefts,  and  deck 
its  rude  and  roughened  breast,  with  a  brighter 
"  order  "  than  ever  glittered  on  the  bosom  of  bravery. 

If  the  dear  departed  ever  appear  to  us,  it  is  when 


70  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

the  sky  is  overcast,  dimly  through  the  mist  of  rain 
and  tears. 

If  the  wondrous  mirage  of  the  mind  ever  brings  to 
view  the  shores  of  the  distant  past,  it  is  when  the 
cloud  is  overhead ;  just  as  we  sometimes  see  the  sun 
shine  on  the  swelling  hills  abroad,  while  the  veil  of 
rain  and  shadow  envelopes  us  where  we  stand. 

If  the  footfalls  of  those  who  have  gone  before, 

"  To  that  unseen  and  silent  shore," 

are  ever  heard  by  the  listening  heart,  it  is  when  they 
are  so  blended  with  the  pattering  of  the  rain,  we 
cannot  tell  one  from  the  other. 

The  Singer  of  the  Welsh  Mountains  makes  the 
Waldenses  bless  God  "for  the  strength  of  the  hills," 
and  why  may  not  we,  in  humble  prose,  bid  the  beati 
tude  of  Memory  rest  upon  the  Rain  ?  The  Rain  that 
brightens  the  past  and  revives  its  withered  and  with 
ering  flowers. 

But  alas !  for  it,  the  warmest,  softest,  sweetest 
Rain — e'en  the  Rain  that  Mercy  is  likened  to — can 
not  restore  to  life  those  who  have  obeyed  the  hallow 
ing  touch  of  time,  and  are  "  dust  to  dust." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  told  it  truly  when  they 
bade  the  mourner, 


IT    RAINS.  71 

'  Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  ; 
For  violets  pluck' J,  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again." 

The  other  day  we  were  favored  with  a  well-be 
haved  rain,  blest  with  an  abundance  of  gentleness, 
and  a  disposition  sweet  as  June. 

It  was  none  of  your  dashing,  roaring  sort  of  rains, 
that  strangle  the  gutters,  splash  against  the  windows, 
and  take  one's  breath  away  with  whole  pailsfull  of 
water  at  once. 

It  was  none  of  your  cold,  sleety,  freezing  rains,  that 
come  down  point  first,  like  an  avalanche  of  cambric 
needles ;  nor  yet,  a  blustering,  whirling  shower  that 
sweeps  up  before  you  in  sheets,  with  the  roll  of  thun 
der  between,  that  makes  you  think  of  banners  in  a 
battle.  Neither  was  it  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
"  steady"  rains,  that  begin  to  get  ready  in  the  morn 
ing,  with  the  wind  "  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds," 
mist  all  the  forenoon,  drip,  drip,  all  the  afternoon,  and 
set  in  to  a  regular  rattling,  pouring  rain,  that  rains  you 
to  sleep — that  you  hear  when  away  in  the  middle  of 
your  dream — that  rains  when  you  wake  up — that 
keeps  raining,  till  you  begin  to  think  of  old  Cove 
nants,  and  bless  yourself,  as  you  turn  over,  that  the 


72  JANUARY   AND    TONE. 

seal  of  the  rainbow  has  not  faded  from  the  dark 
scroll  of  the  storm. 

No,  it  was  none  of  these,  but  just  a  whole  brood  of 
showerettes — little  showers — that  came  one  after 
another,  out  of  the  clouds,  every  other  one  a  sun 
shine,  as  if  to  see  how  Earth  would  be  pleased 
with  them. 

Just  the  rain  that  sets  the  flowers  in  the  garden  to 
dancing  and  courtseying  and  nodding — just  the  rain  to 
render  the  poet's  line  no  fancy, 

"  Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again." 

IT  RAINS  !  But  don't  imagine  for  a  minute  that  it 
always  does  the  same  thing  when  it  rains.  As  em 
phatic  little  girls  say,  under  their  breath,  '  it  n'Aever, 
n'Aever  does.'  There's  the  rain  impromptu,  the  rain 
progressive,  the  rain  premeditated,  and  the  rain  with  a 
"  to  be  continued,"  the  oblique,  the  perpendicular,  the 
driving,  the  dripping,  and  the  sheet  rain;  and  no 
body  can  tell  how  many  more  if  he  tries. 

There's  your  dull,  drizzling,  dreamy  rain,  that 
dampens  the  day  and  the  spirits,  and  makes  one  re 
member  old  sunsets,  old  "  flames,"  and  old  friends ; 
and  there's  your  right  bright,  merry  living  shower, 
that  comes  dancing  down  in  sunshine,  or  moon- 


IT    RAINS.  73 

shine,  or  any  time,  all  the  same.  Here  is  one  that 
comes  creeping  along  stealthily,  first  a  haze,  then  a 
mist,  then  a  wet  blanket,  then  one  drop,  then  two, 
and  "  so  on,"  as  Japhet's  Apothecary — was  it  Ja- 
phet's  ? — was  always  saying.  But  here's  one — a 
clear  sky  a  moment  ago,  but  all  at  once  a  cloud — a 
cloud  with  an  Engine  in  it ;  and  all  at  once  a 
shower,  that  drops  exactly  down ;  then  intermits, 
then  down  again ;  and  the  cloud,  instead  of  hanging 
about  like  a  smuggler,  goes  right  on,  and  there  it  is, 
doing  the  same  by  the  Corn,  that  it  did,  a  minute  ago, 
by  the  Clover.  That's  a  "  Summer  Cloud  ;"  that's 
what  Shakspeare  meant,  I  guess,  by  the  "  o'ercoming  " 
cloud  he  told  of.  At  all  events,  the  interpretation 
makes  it  mean  something,  which  is  more  than  can 
be  said  of  all  expositions,  either  of  Shakspeare  or 
Isaiah.  Summer  Clouds  are  busy  creatures.  Autumn 
Clouds  are  lazy  and  sullen ;  while  those  of  Winter 
go  hurrying  about,  ragged  as  beggars,  but  your  June- 
born  cloud  is  "  no  such  person."  It's  rounded  and 
downy  ;  like  Charity ;  and  shifts  its  apparel  every 
five  minutes  all  day  long.  It  "lets  go"  a  clearly 
defined  shadow  over  grain,  forest,  or  meadow,  but  it 
•'  drags  anchor,"  and  on  it  goes  with  its  shadow,  over 
the  tops  of  the  corn,  and  the  flukes  do  not  rumple  a 


74  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

tassel !     Show  me  any  but  a  Summer  Cloud,  that 
trails  its  Daguerreotype  about,  after  that  fashion. 

But  the  grandest  of  all  rains  is  that  with  Scenic 
and  Orchestral   accompaniments ;  and  the  very  sort 
we  were  having  hereabouts,  when  I  wrote,  "  it  rains." 
Two  hours  ago,  the  sky  was  as  blue  and  as  clear  as  a 
Robin's  egg.     An  hour  and  a  half  ago,  three  Mac- 
be  th-ish  "  thunder-heads"  lay  lurking  sullenly  in  the 
North-west,  behind  the  woods,  and  grimly  growled  at 
the  Sunshine  they  meant  to  "put  out."     There  they 
lay,  three  Golden  Fleeces,  worthy  a  trio  of  Jasons ; 
for  the  Sun  was  doing  what  he  could,  to  burnish  up 
their  dingy  and  brazen  volumes,  till  they  looked  the 
gorgeous  Armorial  Bearings  of  the  Storm  they  were. 
A  moment  since,  coucliant,  now  rampant,  they  have 
rolled  up  almost   to  the  Zenith,  and   behind   them, 
without  rent  or  wrinkle,  trails  the  dark  robe  of  the 
Storm.     A  train,  it  is  shaken  out  over  the  trees ;  a 
sail,  it  curves  from  Heaven  to  Earth ;  men-of-war, 
the  dark  hulls  loom  up  in  the  offing.     There's  a  jar 
ring  of  machinery  above,  as  stately  and  steadily  they 
sweep  up  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  wind.     There's  a 
flashing  of  carabines  athwart  their  dun  decks.    There 
are  red  lights  like  battle-lanterns  swinging  aloft.    The 
drums  beat  grummer  and   srrummer  "to  quarters." 


IT    UAL\*.  75 

They  are  rounding  to;  they  are  lying  broadside  to 
broadside  ;  they  have  opened  ports  !  One  blast  from  a 
Bugle !  The  great  shotted  guns  of  the  gust  \  ~ar  at 
each  other  from  deck  to  deck.  The  roll  of  the  rain 
on  roof  and  tree  rattles  bravely  on,  the  while,  and  at 
last  the  battle  is  ended.  The  cloudy  craft  wear  away, 
all  sails  set,  and  what  pearly  and  purple  signals  they 
show  in  the  setting  sun  ! 

A  great  Rainbow  is  bent  around  the  world ;  the 
half  of  the  signet-ring  of  the  Almighty,  the  great 
Admiral  of  the  Fleet,  in  token  of  peace  and  amity 
'twixt  Heaven  and  Earth. 

The  illusion  is  melting  away.  That  Bridge  of 
Seven  is  breaking.  The  violet  has  grown  dim,  the 
indigo  has  gone,  the  blue  has  faded,  the  green  is  gray, 
the  yellow  is  tarnished,  but  the  red  rim  holds  together 
still.  Dim  and  dimmer ;  it  is  gone,  and  the  woods 
are  all  splashed  with  the  shattered  Bow.  Do  you  re 
member,  years  and  years  ago,  how  you  looked  and 
looked  for  the  fragments?  Haven't  you  done  it 
within  a  month  ?  'Nay,  never  deny  it ;  every  body 
has,  and  so  it's  a  family  secret ; — ADAM'S  Family — 
first  name  not  recollected — and  so,  who  cares  who 
knows  it  ? 


76  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 


fl 


THERE  are  movements  —  believe  it  —  not  due  to  L( 
comotives,  not  made  by  '  fast  horses,'  not  occurring 
in  '  Markets,'  nor  noted  by  Astronomers,  nor  caught 
by  Dancers.  Movements  full  of  grace  and  beauty  ; 
movements  full  of  wonder  and  mystery  ;  Voyagers 
without  log-books,  Travellers  without  diaries  ;  move 
ments  occurring  every  day,  every  where,  in  the  quietest 
nooks  you  can  think  of;  even  here  on  the  Farm, 
carved  out  of  the  woods  with  an  axe,  sculptured  with 
a  plough,  and  lettered  with  a  spade. 

PINE  LAKE,  you  know,  is  just  out  of  sight  of  the 
Farm,  but  wouldn't  be,  if  Summer  did  not  lay  out 
"  ever  so  much"  in  fringe,  about  and  about  it,  as  if 
green  fringe  were  every  thing,  and  to  be  seen,  nothing  ! 
Well,  Pine  Lake  is  gemmed  with  wee  bits  of  Erins  — 
an  Archipelago  of  LILY  leaves  riding  at  anchor  ; 
whereon  creep  petite  snakes,  of  species  to  me  un 
known,  that  wind  themselves  up  like  watch-springs, 
and  sun  themselves  to  sleep.  Occasionally,  a  silly 
tobacco-box  of  a  Turtle  assays  to  make  a  landing,  but 


MOVEMENTS.  77 

there's  a  leaf-quake ;  up  tips  the  Emerald  Isle,  and 
down  tumbles  his  turtle-ship. 

Like  white  chalices  held  up  by  unseen  hands,  thou 
sands  of  lilies  just  part  the  water,  gently  lifted  on 
every  wave,  silently  withdrawn  as  it  subsides.  Beau 
tiful  thoughts  they  are,  rocked  on  the  swells  of  a  pure 
bosom.  In  storm  and  calm,  by  sunlight  and  starlight, 
always  there,  no  tri-linked  cable  clanks  beneath,  but 
fragile  stems  sway  softly  in  the  water  ;  while  bravo 
old  Oaks,  moored  by  an  hundred  roots  to  solid  land, 
are  torn  from  their  fastenings,  and  flung  crashing  to 
earth! 

Lilies  there  are,  pearling  the  billows  of  our  troub 
lous  humanity,  that  thus  ride  out  all  its  storms,  unrent 
and  spotless — Lilies  still,  till,  in  the  last  cold  baptism 
of  death,  they  are  buried  "  out  of  our  sight."  They 
leave  not  a  leaf ;  they  make  not  a  sign  ;  the  waters 
are  crystal  as  before,  and  next  year  there  are  lilies 
again. 

"So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  tleath." 

The  sweetest  offering  of  humanity  to  Heaven  is 
beauty  :  the  beauty  of  form  and  fame.  Lilies  alike 
of  the  field  and  the  flood!  SOLOMON,  "in  all  his 
glory,"  could  not  rival  them,  and  the  utterances  of 


78  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

life's  MASTER,  upon  the  Mount,  have  vested  them 
both  with  a  beauty  immortal  as  the  Spring. 

Hard  by  the  cellar-door,  a  POTATO  had  fallen,  no 
body  knows  when.  Potatoes  were  "scarce  and  in 
demand ;"  potatoes  were  "  like  angels'  visits ;"  in 
fact,  potatoes  were  potatoes  ;  but  amid  the  darkness 
and  damp,  the  individual  tuber  in  question  was  not 
noticed.  So,  and  if  not  "  so,"  then  any  how,  it  deter 
mined  to  do  something  for  itself,  and,  potato  as  it  was, 
be  something.  So  it  sent  out  a  Vine  that  crept  here 
and  there  without  a  light — poor  thing  ! — looking  very 
pale  indeed,  in  the  darkness. 

By  and  by,  instead  of  rambling  about  like  a  truant, 
it  set  off  all  at  once,  and  away  it  went  along  the 
damp,  earthen  floor ;  and  what  was  its  errand,  and 
had  it,  in  very  deed,  a  mission?  A  stray  beam  or 
two  of  sunlight  from  the  upper  air  had  been  in  the 
habit,  at  a  certain  hour,  of  venturing  down  the  cellar 
stairs,  and  struggling  with  the  dun,  and  falling  upon 
the  floor. 

And  the  VINE,  like  a  mariner,  was  making  for 
'  the  light'  that  God  had  kindled  there  in  the  dark  ! 
Joy  go  whh  thee,  pale  Vine,  on  thy  journey.  Engi 
neers  cannot  direct  thy  route ;  Contractors  cannot 
build  a  way  for  thee.  With  a  passport  from  the  hum- 


MOVEMENTS.  79 

blest  deputy  of  the  Universal  Life,  tliou  canst  go 
around  the  world  alone  ! 

On  it  went,  and  yesterday  it  reached  its  destination, 
and  with  a  raveled  leaf  of  lightest  green,  it  lies  there 
beneath  the  sunbeam,  the  tint  of  a  freer,  fuller  life  in 
every  fibre." 

Like  some  low-born  maiden  in  the  "  Morning  Land," 
where  dwell  the  worshippers  of  the  Sun,  this  Vine  has 
crept  night  after  night,  without  a  day  between,  to  the 
place  it  had  heard  of  afar  ofF,  where  the  SHAH  for  a 
while  held  audience.  Arrived,  it  unfolds  its  gift, 
though  'tis  of  the  humblest,  and  lying  upon  the  earth, 
timidly  lifts  the  border  of  his  gorgeous  robe,  and 
covers  its  bended  head,  as  if  it  had  faltered,  " /  too 
am  thy  subject.  Be  thou  my  protector,  as  thou  art 
my  king."  So  said  the  Vine  to  the  great  Prince  of 
Morning.  But  he  withdrew  his  robe,  and  went  on  in 
his  chariot.  He  flushed  the  red  Missouri  with  a  deeper 
glow ;  and  he  gilded  again  the  sands  of  the  Sacra 
mento  ;  and  he  drove  on,  like  Neptune,  over  the  calm 
Pacific ;  and  the  porcelain  towers  of  China  were 
a-blaze  at  his  coming.  He  tarried  among  the  palms, 
and  he  pressed  the  lips  of  the  daughters  of  Circassia, 
and  he  kindled  the  cold  bosoms  of  the  beauties  of  the 
North,  and  he  lingered  in  dalliance  with  the  ivory 


80  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

fingered  women  of  Europe  ;  and  he  did  NOT  forget 
the  Vine,  that  waited  for  him  the  while  in  the  cellar 
of  the  old  homestead.  But  this  morning,  the  chariot 
and  horses  of  Phoebus  waited  without,  while  he  de 
scended  the  damp  and  slippery  steps,  and  left  a  smile 
for  the  Vine  that  will  last  it  all  day  and  all  night, 
and  until  he  comes  again  in  his  glory. 

"  Movements"  indeed  !  Why,  the  Farm  is  full  of 
them.  The  leaves  of  the  SILVER  POPLAR,  in  breaths 
of  air  the  faintest,  go  all  day  like  little  French 
clocks,  with  their  "  green  and  silver — silver-green  ; 
green  and  silver — silver-green,"  while  the  tall  Elm 
swings  slowly  in  the  upper  air,  like  the  pendulums  of 
old  narrow- waisted,  moon-faced  clocks,  wound  up  with 
a  string,  that  used  to  "  tick  behind  the  door,"  from 
gray  Grandam's  infancy,  to  the  shrill  bell  of  the  latest 
hour  that  sailed  from  the  port  of  Time. 

The  STRAWBERRY  is  a  great  rover — in  fact,  the 
"  RED  ROVER"  of  the  vegetable  kingdom.  It  minds 
no  more  about  fences  than  an  English  Hunter  ;  never 
stops  for  bars  or  gates,  but  wanders  about  all  over  the 
Farm  as  it  wills  ;  it  never  tells  where  it  will  be  to 
morrow  or  next  year,  never  leaves  a  line,  and  one  is 
never  sure  he  will  have  it  Thursday  because  he  pos 
sessed  it  "Wednesday.  As  much  a  migratory  creature 


MOVEMENTS.  81 

is  the  Strawberry  as  the  BIRD,  that,  all  day  long,  fans 
the  cold,  thin  atmosphere,  from  Southern  Winter  into 
Northern  Spring — from  Lake  to  Lagoon,  from  Cham- 
plain  to  the  Chesapeake.  A  great  Pendulum  is  that 
Bird  too,  swinging  twice  a  year  over  the  Farm, 
with  the  flowers  or  the  frosts  glittering  beneath  and 
behind  it. 

The  WHEAT,  that  has  been  waving,  and  nodding, 
and  rustling,  for  many  a  day,  they  are  rocking  to  sleep 
in  cradles  of  fingers,  and  to-night  will  conclude  the 
Lullaby  of  the  Harvest.  And  the  Wheat  on  its  way 
down,  meets  the  CORN  and  the  GRASS  going  up,  and 
the  SILK  rising ;  and  the  BEES,  murmuring  along  to 
the  woods  and  the  clover,  meet  the  Cows  coming 
home  to  the  milking,  and  the  Robins  en  route  for  the 
cherries ;  the  pears  and  the  apples  are  coming  on ; 
the  setting  Bantams  and  Cochin  Chinas  are  coming 
off;  the  milk  is  running  over  the  pails  ;  the  share  is 
running  under  the  fallow ;  the  Hops  running  round 
and  round. 

•  The  ROSES,  red,  white,  and  variegated,  have  been 
going  down,  by  the  leaf,  one  after  another,  until  now 
"  the  last  rose  of  summer"  is  "  left  blooming  alone." 
Who  would  not  grieve  more  to  have  them  die,  were 
not  Roses  among  the  few  things  of  earth  that  are  fra- 
4* 


82  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

grant  when  dead?  "  Brindle,"  and  "Red,"  and 
"  old  Mooly"  have  come  in ;  the  Honeysuckle  and 
the  Lilies  have  come  out ;  and  so  it  goes,  and  so 
they  all  go. 

Domesticated,  and  always  in  sight  of  the  house,  arc 
trees  of  about  five-and-twenty  different  characters, 
colors,  and  capabilities ;  and  queerly  do  they  act — 
some  of  them — in  the  down-coming  rain,  as  it 
twinkles  on  the  little  buds,  clatters  on  the  Plantains, 
patters  on  the  Lilac  bushes,  flutters  on  the  Peaches. 
The  Butternut  just  quivers  and  quakes ;  the  Lilac 
dodges  this  way  and  that,  and  the  Roses  fairly  dance 
up  and  down.  The  Peaches,  all  of  a  flutter,  seem 
just  ready  to  fly ;  the  chuckle-headed  Apple-trees 
keep  nodding  like  "  silent  members ;"  the  Mulberry 
swings  lazily  to  and  fro,  as  if  it  didn't  mind  it  much  ; 
while  the  heaped-up  Grape  Vine  shakes  itself  like  a 
thorough-bred  Newfoundland,  and  the  Oak  just  stands 
straight  in  the  shower,  and  takes  it  as  Oaks  should. 
Down  below,  the  White  Clover  twinkles,  twinkles,  like 
very  dim  stars  very  far  off,  and  the  little  Mosses  do 
nothing  but  look  as  green  as  they  can.  The  Wheat 
bows  and  jostles,  and  turns  this  way  and  that,  and 
breaks  its  neck — some  of  it — and  betrays  symptoms 
of  a  regular  stampede,  while  the  knightly  Corn  keeps 


MOVEMENTS.  83 

"  saluting"  the  shower  with  its  broad,  greeii  blades  : 
and  so  they  "go  through  the  motions"  in  all  wea 
thers  ;  and  so,  as  Market  Reporters  have  it,  "  we  have 
movements  to  note." 

A  tree  down  in  the  corner — know  it  well  enough 
"  by  sight" — stands  shivering  from  morning  till  night ; 
it  is  big  enough  to  be  braver ;  a  pert  little  Gluince  by 
tho  south  window  is  for  ever  "  a  nod,  nod,  nodding," 
no  matter  what  is  said,  or  who  says  it ;  while  a 
Sweet  Brier,  that  has  snugged  up  to  the  north  wall, 
amuses  itself  with  '  Spiritual  Rappings'  upon  the 
window-sill ;  a  Maple,  a  little  way  off,  rolls  up  in  the 
wind  its  great  billows  of  green,  and  looks,  sometimes, 
as  if  it  would  toss  itself  into  Heaven,  and  its  glorious 
verdure  be  blent  with  the  Blue  of  the  Blest. 

A  great  Tree,  its  one  column  rising  solemnly  out 
of  the  earth,  and  its  branches  flung  up  into  the  sky, 
is  a  noble  piece  of  architecture,  and  none  but  GOD 
can  build  it.  Such  a  tree  stands  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  and  so,  as  I  have  said,  do  its  great  swells  of 
foliage  roll  up  in  the  blast.  And  when,  sometimes, 
NOON,  like  a  worn  warrior  in  armor  of  gold,  lies 
breathless  upon  the  plain,  there  is  a  rustle  still,  a 
song  and  a  cool  breath  still,  amid  its  mighty  recesses 
of  shade.  When  they  "  lay  the  axe  at  its  root,"  and 


84  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

it  shivers  to  its  green  coronal  with  the  strokes,  and 
it  comes  down  with  the  rushing  of  a  great  banner, 
and  the  roaring  of  a  great  gun,  one  would  almost 
think  the  blue  air  must  retain  the  farm  that  had 
filled  it  so  beautifully  and  long ;  that  its  semblance 
in  aerial  outline  should  not  pass  for  ever  away.  But 
when  I  think  it  is  not  so, 

"  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 

"A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
But  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain." 


DON'T  be  alarmed,  unless  you  are  a  mouse,  or  a 
chicken,  or  some  such  tit-bit.  I've  turned  OWL  ; — 
Minerva's  bird — I've  made  a  descent  upon  the  Hen 
roost  ;  I've  pounced  upon  an  idea,  such  as  it  is ;  an 
idea  in  feathers. 

A  Hen  is  a  foolish  thing — hasn't  a  grain  of  sense, 
for  that's  a  grain  not  found  in  gizzards.  Her  head  is 
pierced  exactly  through  the  middle  for  a  couple  of 


HENDOM.  85 

eyes,  and  a  small  head  at  that,  so  there  is  no  room 
for  sense.  As  for  the  eyes,  they  must  be  excellent 
optical  instruments,  for  she  can  discover  "  a  hawk" 
where  we  couldn't  distinguish  it  from  a  "  handsaw  ;" 
but  then  they  have  about  the  expression  of  a  brace  of 
brass  buttons  at  a  shilling  a  gross.  There  isn't  much 
poetry  about  Hens  ;  there  isn't  much  romance  in  Hen- 
dom.  Hens  are  speckled,  grizzled,  and  gray  ;  white, 
copper-colored,  and  blue — all  blue  in  "  the  Jerseys  ;" 
there  are  the  old-fashioned  hens  and  the  Bantams ; 
those  heavenly  hens,  the  Shanghais  and  Cochin 
Chinas ;  hens  with  no  tails,  short  tails,  and  pretty 
much  all  tails  ;  hens  in  feathered  pantaloons — whew ! 
and  June  too  ! — and  hens  with  Camwood-colored 
pantalettes — the  very  kind  for  the  table  ;  hens  with 
Hussar-caps ;  hens  with  huge  back-combs,  like  our 
Grandmothers;  hens  with  very  delicate  side-combs, 
like  our  Sweethearts. 

The  grand  "  Movement"  in  feminine  humanity  is 
by  no  means  endemic,  inasmuch  as  '  strong-minded' 
hens  are  far  from  being  anomalies  now-a-days.  They 
quarrel,  and  crow,  and  act,  as  near  as  possible,  like 
veritable  Chanticleers  ;  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  see 
a  Bantam  out  in  Bloomer  any  morning  ;  some  of  them 
wear  spurs  already.  Progressive  Hens !  Apropos 


86  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

of  spurs  ;  1  have  an  interest  in,  that  is,  am  part  owner 
of — sole  estate,  real  and  personal — a  magnificent 
Cochin  China  Cock.  He  is  not  knighted  yet;  he 
wants  the  spurs  ;  but  he'll  make  a  sensation  when  he 
gets  them,  and  sign  himself  "  F.  M." — Field-Marshal 
the  Cochin  China,  with  as  good  a  grace,  and  as  much 
of  it  withal,  as  the  "  Iron  Duke."  He  has  a  voice 
already  that  would  he  music  to  THOR,  the  Saxon 
Thunderer  ;  and  he  crows,  hut  "  not  an  ultra"  crow ; 
in  fact,  a  "judicious,  discriminating"  crow,  when 
there  are  no  veteran  rivals  of  the  old  school  in  the 
field.  Never  mind ;  he  is  rehearsing  for  "  sharp 
practice"  one  of  those  days. 

Socrates — we  read — requested,  among  the  last 
things,  that  a  Cock  might  he  sacrificed  to  Esculapius — 
"confirmation  strong" that  it  was  no  Cochin  China; 
else,  what  a  sacrifice  ! 

Hens  are  like  folks  ;  look,  act,  and  talk  like  folks — 
that  is,  a  great  many  folks — that  you  and  I  know. 
There's  one  now,  with  precisely  two  feathers  in  her 
tail,  by  actual  inventory ;  and  the  two  stick  directly 
up,  like  a  couple  of  oars  in  a  fishing  smack.  She's  a 
fussy  little  body,  and  goes  clucking  around  with  one 
chicken  about  the  size  of  a  wren,  quite  unconscious 
of  the  figure  she  cuts,  and  the  ridicule  she  provokes, 


UENDOM.  87 

wherever  she  goes.  Who  doesn't  know  some  body  as 
like  her  "  as  two  peas  ?"  She's  every  where,  in  every 
thing ;  has  "  a  word  in  season,"  and  out,  and  for  that 
matter  the  '  outs'  have  it.  Nothing  going  on,  that 
she  isn't  there,  and  hasn't  something  to  say,  with  her 
short  steps  but  a  great  many  of  them.  Only  glance 
at  that  wonderful  chicken  of  hers,  and  she's  all  of 
a  clutter ;  ruffles  her  feathers,  and  looks — so  she 
thinks — very  formidable.  She  is  too  tough  to  eat,  or 
she  would  have  been  guillotined  long  ago. 

That  gray  individual  is  older  than  "  MACK,"  and 
he's  a  dozen  ;  the  Meg  Merrilies  of  the  Roost.  Quite 
a  Malte  Bran  is  she  in  her  way,  for  what  she  does  not 
know  about  the  Geography  of  Corn-cribs,  Cornfields, 
Cherry  trees,  Melon  patches,  and  rare  picking  gene 
rally,  isn't  worth  knowing.  Posted  in  all  that  per 
tains  to  nestling,  scratching,  and  roosting  places,  she 
unites  in  her  venerable  self  the  Mrs.  Partington  and 
the  Paul  Pry  of  Hendom.  x  Not  a  brood  of  chickens 
does  some  more  favored  sister  lead  triumphantly  off, 
but  she  sets  up  an  apology  for  a  cluck,  spreads  her 
tail,  puts  on  an  extra  frill,  and,  looking  as  matronly  as 
possible — who  would  think  it  ? — lays  claim  to  half 
the  chickens — the  only  thing,  by  the  by,  she  can  lay. 
Having  outlived  her  youthful  weaknesses,  she  has 


88  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

utterly  forgotten  she  ever  was  a  pullet,  and  is  very 
severe  upon  every  little  indiscretion  among  the  poul 
try.  Her  age  is  her  protection,  and  she  makes  the 
most  of  her  privilege,  grows  garrulous  precisely  as  she 
grows  foolish,  and  is  as  captious  and  consequential  as 
an  old  Dowager. 

Longer  Biographies  of  "  bipeds  without  feathers," 
have  been  manufactured  out  of  less  material  than  the 
adventures  of  this  venerable  PARTLET  would  supply. 
In  her  youth,  an  accident,  or,  to  be  briefer,  an  axe, 
deprived  her  of  her  toes  ;  and  then,  just  to  think  of 
it !  what  perils  by  club  and  stone,  and  mop  and 
broom,  she  has  encountered  ;  what  imminent  danger 
from  hungry  hawks  she  has  escaped ;  what  weasels 
have  poached  her  innocent  eggs  !  Nearly  abducted 
by  Reynard ;  quite  looked  out  of  countenance  by  an 
Owl ;  half  frozen  "  that  cold  winter  ;"  almost  drowned 
in  the  wash-tub ;  and  what  a  family  she  has  reared 
in  her  day,  that  were  all  "  well  to  do,"  until  they 
were  well  done.  "What  themes  for  pathos  and  patriot 
ism  ;  what  opportunities  for  ode  and  episode  would 
these  incidents  furnish ! 

It  rains  this  morning,  and  half  a  score  of  cocks  in 
red  and  yellow  uniform,  stand  in  the  corners  of  the 
fences,  under  the  wagon,  or  the  lee  of  an  old  plough, 


HENDOM.  89 

heads  drawn  into  feather  mufflers,  and  looking,  with 
their  drenched  and  drooping  plumes,  like  Militia  Cap 
tains  on  parade  day,  when  Barometers  and  water  are 
reported  "  falling."  There  is  not  a  crow  of  defiance, 
or  triumph,  or  complacence;  not  a  call— you  have 
heard  it,  and  I  cannot  describe  it,  unless  it  is  like  a 
laugh  in  a  muff — to  the  'women  folks,'  at  the  dis 
covery  of  some  rare  delicacy,  real  or  imaginary,  in 
the  freshly-raked  earth ;  imaginary,  for  it  must  be 
confessed  they  are  "  gay  deceivers,"  some  of  them, 
and  call  very  affectionately,  when  they  find  no  corn. 

Observation,  both  of  Cocks  and  Capitalists,  enables 
me  to  say,  that  any  "  Rooster,"  having  from  three 
pecks  to  one  and  a  half  bushels  of  some  current  grain 
at  command,  can  come  into  this  neighborhood,  and 
among  eighty  or  so  (counting  chickens)  of  the  feathered 
race,  be  THE  courted,  caressed,  and  clucked  about,  of 
the  whole  roost;  but  —  an  awkward  invention  is 
'  but,'  for  an  awkward  necessity — let  him  take  care 
of  his  corn. 

Small  lawyers  very  Johnsonian  ;  red-visaged  Boni 
faces  very  Boswellian  ;  officers  of  the  Army  all  Bri 
gadiers  ;  "  Martinets"  of  the  Navy  very  peremptory  ; 
little  Quakeresses  very  modest ;  mothers  very  bustling, 
and  gossips  very  busy — all  are  represented  among 


90  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

that  parti-colored,  cackling,  clucking,  crowing  *owd 
of  Locomotive  MILLS  for  the  grinding  of  all  iorts  of 
produce,  and  called  "  for  short"  HENS. 

These  "  small  deer"   are  vocal   but  not  musical, 
unless  one  has  an  ear  for  sawing  and  filing.     Their 
language   is   too  rich   in   consonants — too  decidedly 
Saxon  ;  and  because,  I  suppose,  no  William  the  Con 
queror   ever   broke    shell,  and  thus  made  his   debut 
into  breathdom,  it  is  without  the  softening  accents  of 
the  Norman-French.     Harsh  as  it  is,  however,  no  one 
can  deny  to  it  expressiveness,   and,  sometimes,  elo 
quence  :  the  great  cry  when  an  egg  is  laid  is  as  good 
as  an  announcement  in  the  London   Times,  thus : 
"  Mrs.  SPECKLED,  of  an  EGG."     The  alarm,  when  a 
wing  somewhat  too  broad  sweeps  over  the  Farm- Yard, 
is  as  significant  as  the  old  Saxon  Tocsin.     The  call 
of  something  "  found,"  is  quite  as  intelligible  as  the 
Town  Crier  with  his  bell.     The  defiant  voice  of  the 
Cock  is  a  challenge  in  honest  vernacular,  and  the 
triumphant  crow  is   a  "  hurrah"  in  plain  English. 
The  Mother's  incessant  '  cluck,   clucking,'  with   her 
family,   is  veritable  "  baby-talk,"   while   her   tones, 
gathering  the  callow  wanderers  together,  are  as  full 
of  love  as  an  old  Ballad.     And  the  notes  of  the 
chickens!    There  is  not  a  rural  sound  softer  and 


CHICKEN    PIE.  91 

sweeter  than  the  home-note  of  the  little  creatures, 
when  nestled  at  night  beneath  the  Mother's  brooding 
wing.  Were  it  translated  into  the  language  of  "  Par 
adise  Lost  " — that  subdued  "  yeep,  eep,  eep  " — it 
would  be,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  word  denned  by  some 
Webster  yet  unborn,  "  perfect  happiness  at  home,  and 
home  once  more  !" 


€  \  i  t  lu  «    |  i  t. 

THE  transition  from  chickens  on  the  perch  to  chick 
ens  in  the  pie,  seems  more  natural  and  easy  according 
to  Whateley  and  Newman  than  it  is  according  to 
Poultry.  I  abominate  Chicken-pies  as  edibles,  but, 
be  assured,  from  no  "  fellow  feeling."  I  love  to  see 
them,  to  think  of  them,  but  not  to  eat  them.  I 
would  as  soon  make  a  meal  of  reminiscences,  or  call 
for  a  Metaphor,  "  rare  done,"  at  dinner.  They  are 
suggestive  ;  they  are  melancholy — Chicken-pies  are ; 
they  bring  to  mind  days  that  went  down  long  ago 
at  home ;  the  capacious  and  burnished  tin  pan, 
wherein  "  mother" — your  mother  and  mine — used  to 
bake  them  aforetime;  the  old  family  table,  round 


92  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

which  we  five,  and  no  more,  used  to  gather,  Christ 
mas  Days  and  Thanksgivings ;  when  to  hold  the  lan 
tern  at  night,  while  some  body  robbed  the  hen-roost, 
was  an  era  ;  when  we  used  to  run  away  before  they 
were  beheaded,  because  we  couldn't  '  bear  to  see  it ;' 
when  we  just  wanted  to  hold  one  a  minute,  '  to  see 
how  it  would  seem  ;'  when  a  wing  was  a  treasure, 
and  we  '  played  '  it  was  a  bird,  and  '  poored'  it,  and 
offered  it  crumbs  of  bread  every  day,  and  wrapped  it 
up  in  an  apron,  and  hid  it  in  the  trundle-bed  ;  when 
we — you  and  I — grasped  the  '  m's/i-bone  '  and  wished, 
and  both  pulled,  and  both  held  a  fragment ;  but 
yours  was  the  larger,  so  you  Jiad  your  wish,  as  they 
all  told  us.  Don't  you  remember  ?  Can't  you  see 
it  all  ?  Ah  !  there's  more  beneath  that  swelling 
crust  than  every  body  dreams  of,  and  the  chickens  are 
a  small  item  indeed. 

That  mnemonic  pie  "  minds "  me,  too,  of  the 
days  when  to  find  a  Hen's  nest  was  to  have  an 
ecstacy ;  the  more  eggs,  the  more  ecstacy.  Many 
a  man — perhaps  you  have — has  found  name  and 
fame  since  then,  and  it  never  quickened  a  pulse  ! 
How  the  chip  hat  was  doffed,  preparatory  to  "  the 
removal  of  the  deposites,"  and  the  eggs  transferred 
thereto  ;  and  no  Roman,  returning  from  flushed  fields 


CHICKEN    PIE.  93 

of  conquest,  felt  half  so  grand  as  ycu  and  I,  when  we 
counted  the  treasures,  one  by  one,  into  Mother's 
checked  apron,  and  had  a  vision  of  a  little  pie  a-piece, 
baked  upon  '  our  scalloped  tins.' 

Sometimes,  after  a  driving  rain,  you  remember,  we 
used  to  find  a  downy  chick,  drenched  with  water,  in 
articulo  mortis.  The  little  handled  basket,  stained 
with  strawberries  summers  before,  was  nicely  lined 
with  cotton-wool,  and  the  gasping  helplessness  nestled 
therein,  and  the  basket,  with  its  precious  contents, 
covered  with  a  cloth,  was  set  in  a  corner  near  the 
kitchen  fire,  to  keep  it  warm.  And  what  times  we 
had,  wetting  up  meal,  and  feeding,  and  watching,  and 
'tending !  How  many  times  we  peeped  under  the 
cloth,  just  to  see,  as  we  said,  '  how  it  is  now.' 
Fierce  altercation — sorry  to  say  it — about  the  owner 
ship  of  the  tenant  in  the  basket,  would  arise,  and  the 
titles  tried  by  the  usual  test  of  who  saw  it  first,  wh& 
got  to  it  first,  who  put  it  in  the  basket,  whose  hen 
laid  the  egg,  or  whose  hen  hatched  it ;  and  maybe, 
the  while,  the  chicken  would  be  dying.  The  right  of 
possession  occurs  simultaneously  to  both  ;  a  plunge  's 
made  for  the  basket ;  the  cloth  falls  off  in  the  melee, 
and  the  chicken  lies  there,  among  the  white  wool — 
dead  !  War  is  turned  to  weeping.  I  made  a  shingle 


94 


JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 


coffin;  you  dug  a  grave.  The  chicken  was  borne 
out  beneath  the  apple-tree,  and  we  buried  it  there, 
and  sang,  as  well  as  we  could, 

"  Hark !  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  sound." 

That  done,  you  remember  one  of  us  wrote  upon  the 

fragment  of  a  slate,  '  SACRED  to  the  memory  of ' 

and  there  was  a  difficulty  ;  it  had  no  name.  But  this 
was  disposed  of,  and  we  wrote  on — '  a  little  BIDDY, 
drowned  to  death,  July  10th,  18-' — I've  forgotten  the 
year  ;  and  then  drew  over  the  top,  a  distant  resem 
blance  of  a  weeping  willow,  very  drooping  and  sad, 
and  set  it  up  at  the  head  of  the  grave.  That  after 
noon  there  was  a  shower,  and  at  night,  when  we 
went  out  to  see  the  little  grave  again,  the  inscription 
was  gone  ;  the  drops  of  rain  had  washed  it  all  away  ! 
Strange,  we  never  thought  of  it  then,  but  we  have 
since  :  slate,  marble,  or  brass  ;  pencil,  graver,  or  gild 
ing,  it  is  all  the  same.  The  world  weeps  away  its 
griefs,  and  with  those  griefs,  the  memory  of  the  wept. 
Since  then,  we  have  both  stood  by  other  graves, 
times  too  many,  doubtless  with  deeper,  but  never  with 
truer  sorrowing,  than  when,  beneath  the  old  apple- 
tree,  we  paid  our  childish  tribute  to  the  dead  NEST 
LING. 


HAPPINESS  "AT  COST."  95 


Jiapituss   "at   €0st." 

THIS  morning,  a  wagon,  laden  with  wheat,  went 
by,  going  to  town  ;  nothing  strange  in  that,  certainly. 
And  a  man  driving  the  team,  and  a  woman  perched 
on  the  load  beside  him,  and  a  child  throned  in  the 
woman's  lap  ;  nothing  strange  in  that,  either.  And 
it  required  no  particular  shrewdness  to  determine 
that  the  woman  was  the  property — "personal"  of 
course — of  the  man,  and  that  the  black-eyed,  round- 
faced  child  was  the  property  of  both  of  them. 

So  much  I  saw ;  so  much,  I  suppose,  every  body 
saw,  who  looked.  It  is  a  fair  inference  that  the  wife 
was  going  in  to  help  her  husband  '  trade  out'  a  por 
tion  of  the  proceeds  of  the  wheat,  the  product  of  so 
much  labor  and  so  many  sunshines  and  rains. 

The  pair  were  somewhere  this  side — a  fine  point 
of  observation,  isn't  it  ? — this  side  of  forty,  and  it  is 
presumptive,  if  blessed  like  their  neighbors,  they  left 
two  or  three  children  at  home,  '  to  keep  house'  while 
they  came  to  town — perhaps  two  girls  and  a  boy,  or, 
as  it  is  immaterial  to  us,  two  boys  and  a  girl. 

Well,  I  followed  the  pair,  in  thought,  until  the 


96  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

wheat  was  sold,  the  money  paid,  and  then  for  the 
trade.  The  baby  was  shifted  from  shoulder  to  shoul 
der,  or  set  down  upon  the  floor,  to  run  off  into  mis 
chief  like  a  sparkling  globule  of  quicksilver  on  a 
marble  table,  while  calicoes  were  priced,  sugar  and 
tea  tasted,  and  plates  "  rung."  The  good  wife  looks 
askance  at  a  large  mirror  that  would  be  just  the 
thing  for  the  best  room,  and  the  roll  of  carpeting  of 
most  becoming  pattern ;  but  it  won't  do ;  they  must 
wait  till  next  year.  Ah !  there  is  music  in  those 
next  years  that  Orchestras  cannot  make  ! 

And  so  they  look,  and  price,  and  purchase  the  win 
ter  supplies,  the  husband  the  while  eying  the  little 
roll  of  bank-notes,  "  growing  small  by  degrees  and 
beautifully  less."  Then  comes  an  '  aside'  confer 
ence,  particularly  confidential.  She  takes  him  affec 
tionately  by  the  button,  and  looks  up  in  his  face — she 
has  fine  eyes  by  the  by — with  an  expression  eloquent 
of  "  do,  now  ;  it  will  please  them  so."  And  what  do 
you  suppose  they  talk  of  ?  Toys  for  the  children ; 
John  wanted  a  drum,  and  Jane  a  doll,  and  Jenny  a 
little  book  all  pictures,  "just  like  Susan  so-and-so's." 
The  father  looks  "  nonsense ;"  but  he  feels  in  his 
pocket  for  the  required  silver,  and  the  mother,  having 
gained  the  point,  hastens  away,  baby  and  all,  for  the 


ARRIAL    REHEARSAL.  97 

toys.  There  acts  the  mother — she  had  half  promised, 
not  all,  that  she  would  bring  them  something,  and 
she  is  happy  all  the  way  home,  not  for  the  bargains 
she  made,  but  for  the  pleasant  surprises  in  those  three 
brown  parcels.  And  you  ought  to  have  been  there, 
when  they  got  home  ;  when  the  drum,  and  the  doll, 
and  the  book  were  produced — and  thumped,  and 
cradled,  and  thumbed — wasn't  it  a  great  house  ! 

Happiness  is  so  cheap,  what  a  wonder  there  is  not 
more  of  it  in  the  world  ! 


LAST  night,  the  moon,  with  a  new  coat  of  silver, 
rode  high  in  the  west,  while  in  the  north  and  north 
east,  pure,  pearly  white  overlaid  the  blue — then  deep 
ened  to  an  orange — then  turned  to  a  crimson,  till  it 
looked  like  the  pillar  of  fire  in  the  wilderness,  or  a 
Daguerreotype  of  sunset. 

Anon  it  changed  ;  the  crimson  was  pink  ;  the  blue, 
a  blush  ;  and  the  pearl,  a  delicate  green. 

What  they  were  doing  up  aloft,  is  more  than  I 
know  ;  whether  rehearsing  sunset  or  sunrise,  '  shifting 


98  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

scenes'  for  the  never-before-performed  drama  of  '  To 
morrow,'  or  spreading  out  rainbows  on  the  upper 
decks  to  dry,  is  to  me  a  mystery. 

Now  and  then,  white,  silvery-looking  spars  were 
lifted  up  from  the  northern  horizon,  and  converged  in 
the  zenith  ;  and  it  occurred  to  me,  that,  may  be,  they 
were  repairing  this  great  blue  tent  we  live  under,  and 
that  I  saw  the  bare  spars  and  the  red  linings  of  the 
curtains  that  were  thrown  up,  to  keep  them  out  of  the 
way  of  the  aerial  craftsmen. 

And  then  again,  as  it  crimsoned,  and  pearled,  and 
clouded  so  exquisitely,  I  fancied  it  might  be  Heaven's 
grand  pattern  for  sea-shells  to  tint  by,  discovered  at 
last. 

And  once  more,  ere  I  had  quite  made  up  my  mind 
on  this  conjecture,  such  a  beam,  nay,  cloud  of  red 
light  streamed  out  into  the  night,  and  over  the  stars, 
one  would  be  sure  it  must  come  from  Heaven's  painted 
window,  and  that  some  body — perhaps  some  body  we 
once  knew  and  loved,  and  love  still — was  passing  to 
and  fro,  giving  us,  without  the  walls,  a  glimpse  or  two 
of  the  glory  within. 

As  I  kept  looking,  I  kept  fancying,  and  who  knew 
that  it  might  not  be  the  evening  of  some  forgotten 
and  long-past  yesterday,  thus  '  revisiting  the  glimpses 


AERIAL    REHEARSAL.  99 

of  the  moon' — one  that  you  and  I  loved,  and  have 
sighed  for,  more  than  we  would  care  to  tell,  and 
M-ould  give  a  dozen  to-morrows  to  see  again. 

As  I  looked,  it  changed,  and  the  whole  heaven 
from  far  below  the  Dipper  to  the  Zenith,  was  a  flut 
ter.  Through  the  silver  lace-work  shone  the  stars, 
and  the  blue,  and  the  galaxy  itself.  What  could  it 
be,  but  the  dim  scarfs  of  the  loved  and  lost,  thus 
waved  in  token  of  remembrance  to  the  earth  beneath  ? 
And  why  not  ?  How  beautiful  and  how  calm  lay 
that  earth  beneath  the  great  Argus  sky !  The  eyes 
of  hundreds  were  turned  towards  Heaven,  that  during 
the  broad  and  glaring  day  forget  there  is  a  Heaven, 
and  a  treasure  in  it.  They  remembered  it  then,  and 
were  remembered  in  turn.  Ah  !  if  our  fancies  were 
only  half  true  ! 

The  books  call  it  Aurora  Borealis — what  do  we 
care  for  the  books  ? — and  the  philosophers  declare  it 
is  electrical  in  its  origin  ;  a  fig  for  the  philosophers ! 
The  books  of  memory  and  the  human  heart  were 
printed  and  collated  before  that  conceited  old  German 
they  tell  of,  ever  cut  a  type  ;  and  as  for  philosophy, 
there  is  more  wisdom  in  a  thought  thus  tinted  with  a 
ray  shining  through  last  night  from  yesterday,  than 


100  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Seneca,    or   any   body   this    side   of  Solomon,    ever 
thought  of. 

But  while  I  gazed  and  mused,  the  vision  vanished, 
the  window  was  curtained,  the  rehearsal  over,  the 
sea-shells  taught  their  lesson,  the  tent  '  as  good  as 
new,'  the  last  scene  shifted,  and  the  old  yesterday 
faded  out. 


SOMETHING  very  mysterious  over  to  CHARLES',  yes 
terday.  All  the  children  belonging  to  all  the  neigh 
bors  were  cautioned  not  to  '  come  a-near,'  and  RUSH 
went  dashing  off  to  town,  like  a  king's  courier,  and 
there  was  much  talk  among  the  feminines,  that  grew 
beautifully  inaudible  at  my  approach. 

"Whatever  it  was,  or  would  be,  it  created  a  strange 
commotion  in  all  the  region  round  about.  At  our 
house,  bureau-drawers  tumbled  out  their  treasures  of 
flannels  and  linens ;  closets  and  upper  shelves  were 
ransacked  for  saffron  and  catnip ;  time-tinted  papers 
of  pink  and  senna  were  disturbed,  amid  barbless  fish 
hooks,  broken  awls,  and  rusty  gimlets. 


DOMESTIC    ENCHANTMENT.  101 

What  could  it  all  mean  ?  Three  women  in  secret 
conclave,  stood  sentry  at  the  kitchen-door.  "Why  did 
they  look  at  me  ?  What  had  I  to  do  with  it,  or 
them,  or  any  thing  ? 

An  exodus  was  effected;  once  in  the  fields,  I 
breathed  freer,  and  who  wonders  ? 

Mercy  on  the  house  that  never  had  a  bahy  in  it ! 
Don't  you  remember  when  you  were  e  little,'  how  you 
sighed  for  a  playfellow,  and  how,  some  bright  morn 
ing,  they  took  you  mysteriously  and  smilingly  by  the 
hand,  and  led  you  into  a  darkened  room,  with  a  gleam 
of  white  drapery  in  it ;  and  how  you  trembled  in 
your  little  shoes  as  you  stood  there,  every  thing  was  so 
dim,  and  solemn,  and  whispered ;  and  how  Aunt 
Green,  or  Brown,  or  some  body,  took  out,  exactly  from 
the  midst  of  the  drapery,  a  nice  little  bundle,  bor 
dered  about  with  ribbon,  and  you  discovered  a  face 
of  the  littlest,  and  eyes  of  the  bluest,  and  fingers  of 
the  tiniest,  and  you  were  enjoined  to  kiss  it,  and  love  it, 
and  '  be  good'  to  it,  for  ever  and  ever  ?  And  you  asked 
all  in  a  breath,  whence  it  came,  and  when  it  came, 
and  who  brought  it,  and  whose  it  was,  and  were  told, 
'  from  Heaven — last  night — an  Angel — yours  !'  How 
you  wished  you  had  been  awake,  to  see  that  beautiful 
Angel  with  her  long  white  wings  !  And  did  she  go 


102  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

'right  away,'  and  would  she  come  again  and  bring 
another  ? 

Perhaps  they  averred  that  the  precious  little  crea 
ture  was  found,  like  a  young  quail,  hidden  beneath 
some  marvellous  leaf.  Many  a  time,  whether  you 
will  own  it  or  not,  now  you  have  grown  old  and  wise, 
you  have  peeped  beneath  the  plantains  and  the  bur 
docks,  in  the  secret  hope  of  finding  another  little 
Moses,  ready  to  smile,  that  you  might  have  all  to 
yourself.  Many  a  time,  whether  you  will  own  it  or 
not,  you  watched  some  parting  in  the  summer  cloud, 
and  thought  you  saw  a  wing  and  an  angel ;  and  then, 
it  wasn't  a  wing,  but  a  little  cherub  coming  all  alone, 
sailing  on  a  little  cloud  all  crimson  and  gold ;  and 
then,  it  was  just  a  face  that  looked  through,  and  was 
withdrawn  ;  and  then,  you  grew  weary  with  watch 
ing,  and  your  eyes  ached  with  gazing,  and  you  fell 
asleep  under  the  tree,  and  dreamed  it  was  all  true 
and  more  !  What  wouldn't  you  give  for  one  such 
dream  now  ? 

Just  heard  from  CHARLES'.  Enchantment,  necro 
mancy,  sorcery,  and  incantation  are  all  true — never 
doubt  it !  His  house  is  haunted  !  A  "  charmer"  has 
come  into  that  quiet  family,  and  the  wonders  she 


DOMESTIC    ENCHANTMENT.  103 

works,  would  put  Persians  and  East  Indians  to  their 
trumps. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  give  the  wheel  of 
time  a  tremendous  whirl  forward,  and  throw  a  re 
spectable  couple,  if  not  exactly  into  "  kingdom  come," 
at  least  into  the  generation  on  befor*,  and  transform 
them  into  grandfather  and  grandmother  in  -a  twink 
ling  ;  turn  innocent  young  women  into  aunte.  and 
roistering  boys  into  uncles,  before  they  knew  it  and 
cap  the  climax,  by  making  a  young  pah;  who 
fancied,  a  minute  ago,  they  had  their  fortunes  to 
make,  independent  for  life.  And  all  this  time>  fcnd 
doing  all  this,  she  never  said  a  word ! 

But  this  Charmer  wrought  other  wonders.  She 
made  an  error  of  one  in  the  tables  of  a  Census-taker, 
miles  away,  and  puzzled  him  sadly  ;  she  prolonged  a 
piece  of  delicate  flannel  then  going  through  the  loom, 
just  three  yards  ;  gave  the  spool  of  the  ribbon- weaver 
a  dozen  turns  more  than  was  intended;  kept  the 
weary  lace-maker,  in  spite  of  herself,  full  two  hours 
longer  at  her  task,  she  wondering,  the  while,  why  she 
tarried  at  her  toil.  And  so  she  went  on  with  hei 
witchery,  further  than  I  have  time  to  think  or  pa 
tience  to  tell,  and  yet — people  profess  to  belie""  ih»< 
the  days  of  enchantment  have  passed  away ! 


104  JANUARY  AND   JUNE. 

'  The  name  of  this  Charmer  ?'  inquires  some  body, 
and  there  he  has  me  at  fault.  She  is  nameless,  like 
the  clouds  and  the  flowers.  She  came  unannounced. 
She  bore  no  letters  of  introduction.  She  presented  no 
card  ;  and  indeed,  '  saving  and  excepting'  the  wonders 
she  works,  she  is  an  emphatic  no  body.  Strange 
world,  isn't  it  ?  Strange  visitors  enter  it,  don't  there  ? 


IttsmniMc  Cat  atat 


THERE  is,  as  every  body  knows,  a  trumpet-shaped 
little  instrument,  delighting  in.  t&e  barbarous  name  of 
Stethoscope,  made  at  soma  small  expense  of  wood, 
ivory,  and  skill,  wherewith  the  surgeon  plays  eaves 
dropper  to  the  clink  of  the  machinery  of  life  ;  and 
there's  a  thought  in  it  alike  for  the  preacher  and  the 
poet.  It  is  sublime,  indeed,  to  bring  one's  ear  close 
to  the  heart's  red  brink,  and  list  the  tinkling  of  the 
crimson  tide  ;  but  there  is  something  more  sublime 
than  this.  Beneath  that  wave  incarnadine,  in  every 
heart,  lie  pebbly  thoughts  in  rhyme,  and  gems  "  of 
purest  ray,"  beyond  the  ken  of  surgeon,  and  beyond 
his  skill  —  the  emotion  half  uttered  in  a  sigh,  the  hope 


AN  UNSCIENTIFIC    CHAT    ABOUT    MUSIC.  105 

half  written,  in  a  smile,  the  grief  betokened  in  a 
tear. 

Now  that  sublimer  something  is — POETRY.  "  !  ?" 
— Yes,  most  Incredulous,  Poetry — for  what  is  it,  after 
all,  but  the  stethoscope  of  the  soul,  whereby  we  hear 
the  music  of  a  healthful  heart,  and  the  footfall  of 
lofty  thought  in  the  hall  of  the  spirit  ?  What  is  it 
but  the  thought  itself,  warm  and  living,  throbbed  out 
by  one  heart,  only  to  find  lodgment  in  another  ?  And 
what  is  Music,  but  the  melodious  wing  that  wafts  and 
warms  it  on  its  mission  round  the  world — that  will 
not  let  it  droop — that  will  not  let  it  die  ? 

"Auld  Lang  Syne" — here  it  is,  glittering  with  the 
dews  of  its  native  heather — sung  last  night  in  a 
hovel,  sung  this  morning  in  a  hall.  "  When  shall  we 
meet  again  ?"  Within  one  little  year  how  many  lips 
have  asked — how  many  knells  have  answered  it ! 
Where  pipes  Cape  Horn  through  frozen  shrouds,  the 
mariner  hums  "  Sweet  Home,"  to-night  ;  where 
hearths  are  desolate  and  cold,  they  sing  "  Sweet 
Home,"  in  Heaven.  With  how  many  blended  hearts, 
from  Plymouth  to  the  Prairie,  "  Dundee's  wild  war 
bling  measures  rose"  last  Sabbath  morn — the  strain 
the  Covenanters  sang — the  tune  that  lingers  yet  along 

the  banks  of  murmuring  Ayr  !     The  "  Star  Spangled 
5* 


106  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

Banner"  strong  voices  hymn  on  deck  and  desert,  in 
bivouac  and  battle,  where  beats  a  heart  beneath  Co 
lumbia's  flag.  The  "Exile  of  Erin"  will  sing  the 
mournful  strain,  while  grates  his  pilgrim  bark  upon  a 
foreign  shore  ;  they'll  chant  "  Marseilles,"  and  sound 
the  simple  "  Ranz  des  Vaches,"  till  Revolutions  are 
no  more,  and  Alpine  altars  cease  to  kindle  in  the 
evening  beam.  "Those  evening  bells,"  and  "Sweet 
Afton,"  and  all  that  long  array  of  sweet  and  simple 
melodies  that  linger  round  the  heart,  like  childhood's 
dreams  of  heaven — whence  came  their  breath  of  im 
mortality,  if  not  from  Music,  the  pinion  of  the  Song  ? 
And  then  those  sacred  tunes  that  floated  round  the 
old  gray  walls  of  the  village  church,  and  haunt  our 
memories  yet ;  St.  Martin's,  St.  Thomas,  and  St. 
Mary's,  immortal  as  the  "calendar;"  Old  Hundred, 
Silver  Street,  and  Mear,  and  sweet  old  Corinth — Den 
mark,  Wells,  and  Peterboro" — chance  breaths  caught 
from  the  choir  above  !  The  faces  of  the  Singers  have 
changed  since  then.  The  girls  are  wives — the  wives 
are  dead.  Those  plaintive  airs  they  sang  around  the 
open  grave,  beneath  the  maple's  shade  !  Lay  your 
hand  upon  your  heart,  and  tell  me  what  is  nearer  to 
it  than  those  old  strains — tell  me,  can  they  die,  while 
that  beats  on  ?  Die  till  the  "  great  congregation," 


AN  UNSCIENTIFIC    CHAT   ABOUT   MUSIC.  107 

the  missing  ones  all  gathered  home,  strike  up  the 
sleeping  song  anew,  in  "  temples  not  built  with 
hands"  ?  There's  Tallis'  Evening  Hymn,  the  vesper 
of  two  hundred  years  !  They  sing  it  yet — sing  it  as 
they  sang,  in  twilight's  hush,  and  charmed  our  youth 
ful  ears.  They  !  Who,  and  where  are  "  they"  ? 
The  loved — in  Heaven  !  Perhaps  they  sing  it  there. 
Who  will  not  say  with  Christopher  North,  "  blessed 
be  the  memory  of  old  songs  for  ever"  ? 

And — "  mind  the  step  down" — the  fashionable 
"  scores"  of  these  days  of  science  and  "  executions" — 
the  music  of  the  parlor  and  soiree,  thrummed  on 
pianos,  twanged  on  guitars,  drawn  out  from  accor 
dions — the  sounds  that  swing  scientifically  from  round 
to  round,  up  and  down  the  ladder  of  song  —  now 
swelling  like  a  Chinese  gong — now  quavering  in  the  alto 
of  feline  distraction — now  at  the  height  of  the  art,  and 
now  in  the  very  Avernus  of  the  science — what  ele 
ment  of  melody  or  of  soul  have  THESE,  to  charm  the  ear, 
to  reach  the  heart,  to  live  for  ever  ?  Was  it  Wesley 
who  said  the  devil  had  most  of  the  good  tunes,  after 
all  ?  And  what  did  he  mean,  save  that  out  of  the 
church  and  the  drawing-room — off  the  carpets  ;  on 
the  bare  floors  of  this  great  caravansary,  in  the  street, 
and  the  cane-brake,  and  the  theatre,  where  they  clat- 


108  JANUARY  AND  JUNE. 

ter  castanets,  beat  the  banjo,  and  sing  in  disguise, 
float  some  of  the  sweetest  strains  that  modem  times 
can  claim  ? 

Well,  there  ! — I  have  "  made  a  clean  breast  of 
it " — volunteered  my  opinion,  "  that  shouldn't,"  of  the 
new  school  of  fashionable  music,  and  live  to  tell  it ! 
How  unfortunate — isn't  it? — but  for  Pity's  sweet 
sake,  don't  pity  me — that  I  was  born  a  thousand 
years  or  so  too  late  ;  and  did  I  not  believe  that  of  the 
patient  five  who  courageously  read  this  article,  four 
think  in  their  "heart  of  hearts"  as  I  do,  I  should  not 
have  placed  my  lips  at  the  great  confessional,  with 
the  "  fearful  hollow"  of  the  Public's  ear  so  near  the 
other  side. 

Music  that  is  music,  is  a  universal  language,  for 
psean,  plaint,  and  praise,  breathed  and  felt  alike  by 
Greek  and  Barbarian,  bond  and  free.  The  first  we 
hear  of  it,  those  bright  choristers,  the  "  morning 
stars,"  were  singing  a  lullaby  over  the  cradled  earth, 
and  the  last  of  it — may  we  never  hear — it  is  the  dia 
lect  of  Heaven  !  Every  body  loves  it ;  every  body — 
don't  deny  it — has  a  tune  or  two  laid  up  in  his  heart 
with  the  trinkets  of  memory — those  little  keepsakes 
of  the  past  that  every  body  loves  to  think  of,  but  no 
body  talks  about ;  and  he  must  be  very  much  of  a 


AN  UNSCIENTIFIC    CHAT    ABOUT    MUSIC.  109 

fool  or  very  much  of  a  martyr  who  would  dare  it.  If 
a  man  have  a  cherished  thought  or  hope,  it  is  wrap 
ped  up  in  a  little  song — it  is  itself  a  song.  Samson's 
strength  was  hidden  in  a  tress  of  hair  ;  and  so  the 
strong  men,  the  world  over,  who  eschew  poetry  and 
music  as  elegant  trifles,  have  hidden  their  weakness 
in  some  sweet  air  of  old — the  sesame  to  feelings  they 
have  survived — the  prophet's  wand  to  the  rock  they 
fancy  seamless.  Find  that  out,  and  they  are  even  as 
other  men — touch  that,  and  their  hearts  lie  in  two 
pieces  before  you. 

There  is  one,  who  never  was  born,  a  sort  of  man- 
at-arms  to  Minerva — at  least  so  he  seems  to  think — 
who  made  his  debut  into  breathdom  in  boots  and  a 
beard,  armed  to  the  teeth,  as  Richard  was,  and  for  a 
like  intent.  Did  you  ever  see  him  try  to  smile  on 
childhood,  without  a  lingering  apprehension  that  he 
might  play  Saturn  (see  his  godship's  "  bill  of  fare") 
with  the  little  innocents  ?  Look  at  his  eye,  cold  and 
gray  as  November,  and  his  brow,  latticed  with 
wrinkles,  as  if  to  cage  "  some  horrible  conceit."  Time 
never  ploughed  such  a  "  bout"  as  that.  Who  ever 
heard  him  sing  a  song,  or  whistle  a  tune,  or  even  drum 
with  his  fingers  at  musical  intervals  ?  "Who  ever 
caught  him  assaying  a  pirouette  or  reading  poetry— 


110  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

heard  him  call  any  thing  lovely  or  charming  that 
couldn't  be  "  checked,"  and  journalized,  barreled, 
baled,  or  bundled  ?  No  body.  And  yet  he  is  an  ex 
cellent  man,  upright  as  a  mountain  pine,  regular  as 
a  chronometer,  but  some  how  or  other,  the  place 
where  his  heart  ought  to  be,  is  walled  up — and  taken 
altogether,  he  resembles  a  January  night — very  fair 
and  very  cold. 

Now  look  at  him  as  he  is — a  cast-iron  specimen  of 
the  cui  bono  school,  and  tell  me,  was  he  ever  in  love  ? 
Did  the  light  of  his  eye  wax  warmer  once,  and  his 
tones  grow  deeper  and  softer,  do  you  think  ?  Get  a 
clerkship  with  him,  and  turn  over  old  ledger  "A." 

If  you  find  any  account  of  Miss 's  investment,  or 

Miss 's  venture  ;  if  you  find  the  transaction  duly 

booked,  rely  upon  it,  he  was. 

Is  there  not,  then,  in  all  that  heart  of  his,  one 
rocky  cleft,  wherein  a  flower  may  cling,  in  sweet  me 
morial  of  a  gentler  time  ?  Does  there  not  linger 
round  those  walls  of  stone,  some  echo,  orphaned  now, 
of  a  joy  "  lang  syne" — another  heart  responsive  to 
his  own  ?  Is  there,  indeed,  no  hidden  fountain,  or  no 
wand  to  wake  it  ?  Ah  !  yes.  Of  all  the  drums  that 
beat  life's  reveille,  there  is  not  one,  where'er  it  be, 
thrilling  the  fair  billows  of  Caucasian  bosoms,  or 


AN   UNSCIENTIFIC    CHAT   ABOUT    MUSIC.  Ill 

'neath  the  dusky  vestment  of  Ishmael's  desert  sons, 
that  always  beats  the  dead-march  of  the  past — some 
thoughts  are  sleeping  there,  "  dewy  with  tears." 

Try  him  with  an  old  song  as  he  sits  thoughtfully 
by  the  fire,  between  sunlight  and  lamplight — one  of 
the  sweet  old  songs  our  mothers  sang.  Hum  it  softly 
over.  There's  an  impatient  gesture.  That's  not  the 
one  ?  Another,  then.  He  does  not  seem  to  hear 
you,  but  he  does.  Perhaps  he  looks  fierce — perhaps 
"  accompanies"  you  with  tongs  and  fender — perhaps 
seizes  a  quill  with  nervous  emphasis,  as  if  to  make  a 
pen.  No  matter — sing  on.  He  has  cut  it  to  the 
feather,  ruined  a  best  "  Holland."  You  have  him 
now.  You  will  play  sunrise  with  this  Memnon,  by 
and  by.  "  Where  did  you  learn  that  ?"  says  he,  with 
a  dreadful  scowl.  You  need  not  tell  him  ;  he  neither 
wants  a  reply  nor  waits  for  it.  "  'Tis  a  silly  thing, 
and  none  but  silly  people  sing — don't  you  know  it  ?" 
Then  comes  a  silence.  Slowly  he  resumes  the  long- 
forgotten  thread  of  thought.  "  It's  a  long  time  ago, 
since  I  heard  that  foolish  song — twenty  years — the 
evening  before  I  left  home" — then  he  had  a  nestling 
place  once — "  my  sister  sang  it" — and  a  sister,  too — 
"  and  she — is  dead  now.  Do  you  know  the  whole  of 
it  ?"  he  asks  abruptly,  turning  -to  you — "  sing  it, 


112  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

then."  He  listens  awhile,  grows  uneasy,  lights  a 
lamp,  opens  a  ledger,  and  pretends  to  write.  "  Pshaw ." 
he  mutters ;  he  has  written  his  sister's  name  across 
the  page.  He  seizes  his  hat,  turns  toward  you  with 
a  face  at  least  a  lustrum  younger,  and  says,  "  there, 
that  will  do,"  and  slowly  leaves  the  counting-room. 
Now  look  at  that  ledger's  page.  It  is  blotted.  Did 
he  blot  it  ?  He,  whose  books  are  a  fair  transcript  of 
his  character — precise,  unquestionable,  and  without 
stain  or  erasure  !  Yes,  a  blot,  but  not  of  ink.  You 
have  made  a  better  man  of  him — started  the  dormant 
mechanism  of  his  heart  again,  and  set  the  little 
handful  of  irritable  muscle  playing  as  of  old.  And 
an  old-fashioned  tune — words  in  a  primer,  notes  no 
where — that  old-fashioned  people  sing  with  old-fash 
ioned  voices — alas  !  for  that — trembling  like  a  fast- 
failing  fountain — such  a  melody  has  done  all  this. 

'  But  the  charm  is  attributable  to  association.'  Is 
it  ?  Approach  the  cage  of  the  fiercest  of  his  race — 
a  Hyrcanian  tiger,  and  softly  play  a  sweet  air  upon 
your  flute,  but  it  must  be  a  good  one,  for  though 
tigers  have  little  talent  for  music,  they  have  a  great 
deal  of  taste.  He  lays  his  huge  head  against  the 
bars  of  his  prison  ;  his  stormy  breath  is  lulled  by  the 
magic  potency  of  sweet  sounds  ;  he  is  a  kitten  again  ; 


AJN    UNSCIENTIFIC    CHAT    ABOUT    MUSIC.  113 

and  yet,  the  time  when,  wrapped  in  a  little  striped 
blanket  of  his  own,  he  slept  in  the  mountain  cave, 
with  the  tempest  for  his  lullaby,  has  very  little  to  do 
with  the  "  charming." 

And  the  bright  serpent — will  my  fair  reader  par 
don  the  illustration  ? — that  ribbon  of  living  satin — 
Satan  ? — how  does  he, 

"  That  rolled  away  loose  as  the  sea-wave, 

sweep  up  his  coil 

Surge  upon  surge,  and  lay  his  gorgeous  head 
With  its  fix'd,  sleepless  eye  i'  the  centre  ring, 
The  watcher  of  his  living  citadel," 

when  the  Hindoo  charmer  breathes  a  tune  upon  the 
thrilled  and  slender  reed  ?  How  does  he  arch  his 
glossy  neck,  and  quiver  to  the  strain,  his  tongue  like 
a  lambent  flame  moving  the  while  in  mute  accompa 
niment,  thoroughly  exorcised  in  the  name,  and  by  the 
spirit  of  harmony ! 

"  I  cannot  silence  such  a  voice  as  that,"  said  the 
human  tiger,  and  he  returned  the  steel  gilded  for  the 
Singer's  bosom,  uncrimsoned  to  his  own — an  offering 
snatched  from  the  altar  of  blood,  and  transferred  to 
the  altar  of  song. 

Yes,  there  are  strings  in  every  heart — don't  you 
believe  it  ? — that  are  not  all  worsted — that  were  not 


114  JANUARY    AM)    JUA'E. 

spun  in  a  factory  built  with  hands — not  stolen  from 
a  silkworm's  shroud — not  continuations  of  the  purse- 
strings  ;  chords  of  a  nobler  harp  than  Apollo  swept, 
that  sometimes  play  JEolian  to  the  wings  of  angel 
thought. 

Here,  then,  music  has  its  origin — hence,  like  the 
winged  courier  of  the  ark,  it  goes  forth,  and  hither  it 
returns,  with  the  blessing  and  the  song  of  peace.  All 
hearts — gentle  Charity,  look  the  other  way  while  I 
write  it — all  hearts  are  not  full  strung,  but  what  of 
that  ?  Paganini  made  his  fortune  by  playing  upon 
one  string,  and  Nature  made  some  to  be  like  him. 

Physiologists  tell  us  that  if  one,  with  whom  the 
"  daughters  of  music  are  brought  low,"  stand  on  the 
sounding  shore  amid  the  thunder  of  ocean,  he  can 
distinguish  those  softer  tones,  that  had  floated  round 
him  inaudible  in  the  silence.  And  so  it  is  with  the 
bird-like  voices  of  the  purer  and  the  past,  that  wan 
der  by  unheard  on  muffled  wing,  yet  sometimes  amid 
the  din  and  hurry  of  the  thronged  and  dusty  world, 
thrill  ear  and  heart,  and  charm  us,  for  a  moment, 
back  to  our  better  selves,  ere  the  spring  array  of  life 
was  doffed  for  the  rustling  gold  of  harvest,  or  bound 
in  the  sheaf  to  fade  upon  the  floor  of  the  thresher. 

Age  must  bring  its  dower  of  the  silver  tress,  but 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  NIGHT.        115 

what  of  that,  if  the  heart  be  young  ?  Music,  as  I 
am  regarding  it,  is  the  great  cosmetic  that  keeps  it 
from  growing  old  with  years.  But  to  be  this,  it  must 
also  be  \ieaxi-born.  If  it  springs  thence,  it  will  rise 
like  a  fountain  to  its  height  again — fountain  ?  aye, 
that 's  the  word  ! — and  fall  like  it,  in  hope  and 
beauty,  over  some  other  fountain  that  has  ceased  to 
play  melodiously  as  of  old — its  sublime  mission  of 
beauty  and  blessing  unended,  till  "  the  pitcher  and 
the  wheel  are  broken,  when  the  dust  returns  to  the 
earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit  unto  God  who  gave  it." 


SOME  of  the  fruit-trees  hereabouts  have  strange 
ways  of  their  own  ;  indeed,  I  suspect  a  little  apple- 
tree  of  being  partly  human.  About  tall  enough  to 
speak  Everett's 

"  You'd  scarce   expect  one  of  my  age," 

there  it  stood,  in  full  leaf,  every  one  newly  varnished, 
holding  on  with  all  its  might  to  a  huge  apple,  pendent 
from  the  very  extremity  of  a  limb,  its  first  sole  offer 
ing  to  Autumn  and  its  owner.  There  it  stood,  as  if 


116  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

straining  every  woody  muscle  to  hold  the  wonder  up 
to  sight,  and  by  the  air  of  its  little  top,  seeming  as 
plain  as  words  to  say,  "Look  at  me  and  mine,  won't 
you  ?"  Vain,  little  thing  ! 

Close  by,  stands  another  tree  of  about  the  same 
size,  and  sporting,  like  its  comrade,  one  big,  red  apple. 
But  it  seems  to  have  learned  wisdom  from  its  ambi 
tious  little  neighbor,  and  instead  of  holding  out  its 
burden  at  arm's  length,  it  has  taken  it  '  at  an  advan 
tage,'  having  thrown  it  carelessly  over  a  limb  mid 
way,  with  two  or  three  glossy  leaves  disposed  carefully 
over  it,  for  all  the  world  as  our  grandmothers — God 
bless  them — used  to  carry  their  knitting  work,  with 
the  neatly-folded  blue  cotton  handkerchief,  and  the 
white  stars  in  it — (what  has  become  of  the  blue  cot 
tons,  and  the  stars,  and  the  grandmothers  ?  Lack-a- 
day  !  all  alike,  worn  out,  and  faded,  and  gone) — laid 
carefully  over  it. 

There  stood  the  little  tree,  as  nonchalant  as  a  dead 
shot,  as  much  as  to  say,  "tJiat's  nothing  to  what  I'll 
do,  by-and-by."  I'll  wager  something  on  that  tree. 
Ah  !  that  by-and-by  !  There's  the  song  of  youth  and 
hope,  and  the  beat  of  a  heart,  locked  up  in  it.  And 
who  would  hush  the  song  and  muffle  the  throb  beneath 
the  mantle  of  worldly  wisdom,  but  a  dog  and  a  cynic, 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  NIGHT.         117 

and  they  are  brothers.     Sing  on  !  beat  on  !  say  I !    It 
is  the  music  of  the  march  of  life. 

There's  a  duince  Tree.  With  its  twisted,  crooked 
trunks,  springing  out  of  the  ground  all  together,  and 
turning  and  crowding  in  every  direction,  before  they 
make  a  final  shoot  upward  into  the  air,  it  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  in  such  a  desperate  hurry  to  get  up  in  the 
world,  that  it  hadn't  taken  time  to  make  ready,  and 
hardly  knew  which  way  to  go,  when  it  got  up.  There 
are  quite  as  many  Quince  bushes  of  the  genus  homo 
as  of  the  "Cydonia  Vulgaris,"  as  the  schoolmen  call 
it.  Well,  tarts  are  pleasant,  sometimes,  if  not  too 
tart. 

How  the  Woods  welcome  a  breeze,  and  how  varied 
the  modes  in  which  that  welcome  is  given.  Have  you 
ever  thought  of  it,  and  did  you  ever  see  a  wind  ? 
There's  one  coming  now — a  mere  breath — creeping 
over  the  marsh,  as  if  it  would  take  the  trees  by  sur 
prise.  Catch  its  portrait  now,  while  you  can.  See 
it  run  over  the  tall  grass,  something  like  a  shadow, 
with  a  sunbeam  following  hard  after  it.  That  Elm, 
with  its  pensile  branches,  like  lace  edging  on  the  bor- 
'der  of  the'meadow  !  The  wind  has  swung  itself  up 
into  it,  and  sways  to  and  fro,  as  merrily  as  a  Canary 
in  a  ring.  Down  it  glides,  and  away  for  that  silvery 


118  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Poplar.  How  it  shivers  and  quivers.  Is  the  thing 
timid  or  glad  ?  Glad,  I'll  warrant,  all  of  a  trem 
ble  with  very  joy.  The  breath  takes  courage,  and 
strengthens  to  a  breeze.  There  's  "  a  brave  old  Oak," 
crooked  and  gray,  like  the  tarnished  old  pendulum 
it  is,  swinging  in  the  clear,  sunny  air,  as  it  has  swung 
these  years  and  years. 

That  billowy  maple  feels  it  now.  How  it  swells, 
and  rocks,  and  rolls,  with  its  green  billows,  that  har 
monize  so  perfectly  with  the  blue  sky.  What  song  has 
gone  up  from  those  leafy  deeps,  morning  and  evening, 
evening  and  morning,  many  a  long-gone  summer  ! 

And  there,  in  the  distance,  a  tall  tree — I  don't 
know  its  name — tosses  its  lofty  boughs,  as  if  it  would 
fain  go  with  the  breeze,  and  float  away  in  a  cloud. 
And  these  little  bushes — what  a  flutter  there  is  among 
the  small  fry  !  How  they  curl  down  to  the  ground 
and  lie  flat  in  the  long  grass.  Then,  up  they  come, 
and  look  taller  than  ever. 

The  breeze  is  in  all  the  woods,  and  all  the  woods 
are  "  a  wave  offering."  Nodding,  and  waving,  and 
trembling — rocking,  and  rolling,  and  swinging — shi 
vering,  and  rustling,  and  tossing — the  welcome  of  the 
Woods  to  the  gentle  wind.  Deep,  dark,  glossy — vel 
vety  and  silken  greens  are  blended  in  the  blast. 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  NIGHT.         119 

What  a  whispering,  and  elbowing,  and  crowding 
there  is,  while  the  wind  sweeps  up,  with  "  the  cap- 
full"  of  spray  it  dampens  its  wings  with,  a  note  of 
the  tune  the  brook  in  the  ravine  trolls  over  to  itself, 
and  drops  it,  plump,  in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  as  its 
share  of  the  welcome. 

But  the  prettiest  sights  of  all  were,  to  see  a  Willow 
playing  bo-peep  with  its  shadow,  reflected  in  the 
stream,  as  the  wind,  coming  and  going,  bent  it  over 
the  water  ;  and  a  little  blue-eyed  Flower,  that  grew 
in  a  chink  of  a  rock,  where  it  could  look  out  all  day, 
if  it  would,  but  when  it  heard  the  wind  in  the  grass, 
back  it  drew,  till  the  viewless  went  by,  and  then 
peeped  cautiously  out  again,  as  if  it  feared  the  bold 
thing  would  return,  and  so  it  played  "  hide-and-seek" 
with  the  breezes. 

Of  all  the  trees  I  saw,  one  only  was  not  the 
better  and  the  livelier  for  the  wind.  It  was  a  knotty, 
withered  Hemlock,  that  stood  alone,  like  a  gloomy 
thought  in  the  midst  of  beauty.  As  for  the  old  Hem 
lock,  it  never  moved  ;  there  was  not  a  leaf  to  rustle, 
not  a  bough  to  catch  a  breath.  Solemnly  it  stood — 
the  full  noon  could  not  gild  it — the  moon  could  not 
silver  it — the  rains  could  not  make  it  grow  green 
again. 


120  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

An  eagle,  a  bald  eagle — sat  upon  its  scraggy  and 
blackened  top  —  I  am  not  "  romancing"— there  it 
sat,  motionless.  Something  glistened  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree,  in  the  sand  that  had  drifted  up  around  it. 
I  approached — it  was  a  fish's  bones,  remnants  of 
a  kingly  meal  aloft.  The  Bird  of  Freedom,  inclined 
his  body  forward,  his  wings  spread  out  like  a  sail ;  a 
vigorous  motion  or  two,  and  away  he  swept,  through 
the  realms  of  air ;  a  shadow  floated  on  the  sand 
below — a  figure  on  the  sky  above — the  bird  was  gone. 
A  cloud  muttered  in  the  distance — perhaps  there  ; 
the  sun  shone  overhead — perhaps  there.  At  all  events 
he  had  gone. 

And  are  there  not  those,  who  thus  bereft  of  sum 
mer  hopes  and  glories,  linger  like  that  tree,  in  the 
midst  of  their  fellows,  with  them,  but  not  of  them  ? 
Of  a  spirit  like  that  eagle,  '  dwelling  apart,'  that 
might  have  been  kind,  but  was  made  fierce — that 
would  have  sought  companionship,  but  flung  back 
into  a  dreary  solitude,  is  now  blent  with  the  blaze  of 
the  sun,  and  now  baptized  in  the  gloom  of  the  cloud  ? 
But  that  tree  was  green  once.  Song  and  summer 
were  among  its  branches,  and  that  proud  bird  was  a 
callow  eaglet. 

A  night  in  the  woods,  and  a  mid-summer  night ' 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  NIGHT.         121 

Starry  as  theAlhambra,  leafy  as  Vallambrosa,  still  as 
an  emphatic  pause.  Trees  are  flung  backward  on  to 
the  sky,  with  every  branch  and  twig  motionless,  sha 
dowy,  but  distinct — every  tree,  a  great  leaf  of  itself, 
as  if  Heaven  would  give  us  there,  a  picture  of  the 
forest  as  it  sees  it — nothing  but  a  leaf  or  two,  breath 
less  in  the  night. 

Here  I  am,  in  a  little  room,  looking  out  upon  the 
scene.  The  moon,  yet  but  half  filled,  rides  like  a 
silver  barque,  low  in  the  west,  and  a  fringe  of  silver 
mist,  marks  the  course  of  a  little  stream,  stealing 
through  a  ravine  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  The 
swash — not  a  pretty  word  but  an  expressive  one — of 
the  Lake,  comes  faintly  to  the  ear,  as  the  waves  curl 
up  the  moonlight  and  the  foam  together,  and  lay  them 
along  the  silvery  beach.  The  uneasy,  fitful  tinkling 
of  a  bell,  musical  no  where  but  in  such  a  scene,  seems 
to  ring  up  "  the  Voices  of  the  Night." 

The  sound  of  a  hundred  little  files  is  heard  in  every 
direction — we  have  fairly  caught  them  at  it — carving 
out  the  scollop  of  the  leaves,  and  rounding  up  the 
buds.  "  Pshaw  !"  says  some  body — "  it  is  nothing 
but  a  remnant  of  the  locust  tribe." 

"  Katy  did  !"  "  Katy  did  !"  resounds  in  eveiy  direc 
tion,  and  "  Katy  didn't !"  "  Katy  didn't !"  in  a  que- 


122  JANUARY    AND   JUNE 

rulous,  Caudle-like  tone,  the  affectionate  response. 
"Katy!"  "did!"  "didn't!"  "did!"  "Katy!"— so  it 
goes — the  woods  are  filled  with  these  domestic  jan 
gles.  Who  is  Katy,  and  what  did  she  do,  and  what 
if  she  did,  and  is  she  pretty,  were  questions  that  found 
no  answer,  but  the  still  asserting,  still  denying  "  Katy 
did,"  and  she  didn't,  of  these  queer  insect  gossips. 
Poor  Katy  ! 

"  To-whit !  to-who  !"  Minerva  save  us,  if  there 
isn't  her  bird,  calling  from  his  hollow  tree,  and  "  to- 
who  !"  "to  who  !"  is  the  query  still,  farther  and  far 
ther,  till  lost  in  the  deep  woods. 

"  Whip-poor-Will  !"  says  some  body  from  a  tree 
close  by  the  window,  in  a  sweetly  plaintive  voice,  and 
"Whip-poor-Will  !"  "Whip-poor-Will  !"  is  the  ory  all 
through  the  forest.  What  for  ?  What  has  Will  done  ? 
But  "  Whip-poor-Will  !"  was  the  sole  answer  I 
received.  And  I  fell  to  speculating  :  "  Katy  did,' 
that 's  certain,  and  from  the  "  to  who,"  I  infer — by 
the  way,  what  would  you  infer  ? — well,  I  infer  that 
Katy  went  to  Gretna  Green — so  far,  so  good — "  Whip- 
poor-will  !"  Thank  you,  my  unseen  advocate  of  cor 
poreal  punishment — that  helps  us  out  bravely — went 
to  Gretna  Green  with  poor  Will.  There  it  is,  now,  a 
plausible  story,  and  if  only  there  were  some  bird  of 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  NIGHT.         123 

scandal  to  put  it  together,  a  rare  bit  of  gossip  it  would 
make,  to  be  sure. 

Alas  !  for  him,  may-be  he  is  sufficiently  punished 
without  the — there  they  go  again,  in  full  chorus,  like 
a  gathering  of  crones  at  a  quilting. 

A  single  bark  from  the  kennel  !  a  dozing  hound  is 
hunting  in  a  dream.  We  are  all  hunting  in  a  dream — 
happiness  the  game,  the  "  little  life"  the  dream,  and 
how  weary,  ofttimes,  is  the  waking. 

"  Um-m-m  !"  "  ang,  ang !"  A  thousand  little  horns 
nearer  and  nearer — here  they  are  with  an  ang-k,  and  an 
uzh,  as  they  come,  like  hussars,  plump  upon  us.  Now 
for  the  art  of  Roscius  !  Gesticulation,  pantomime, 
beating  the  bosom  of  the  innocent  air.  What  were 
mosquitoes  made  for  !  Does  any  body  know  ?  Down 
goes  the  window,  out  goes  the  light,  and  in  go  I 
through  the  "  Ivory  Gate"  the  poets  tell  of — the  Gate 
of  '  pleasant  dreams.' 


124  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 


is 


"  POET"  dashed  into  the  house  yesterday,  overturned 
two  chairs  and  the  clothes-horse,  and  panted  out,  '  the 
car-a-van  is  coming  !  Right  on  the  hill  !'  Caravan 
coming  !  What  could  a  caravan  be  thinking  of,  to 
wander  away  into  this  quiet  neighborhood  ?  Yield 
ing  to  the  little  fingers  that  tugged  at  my  coat-sleeve, 
I  repaired  to  the  door,  PORT'S  tongue  busy  the  while 
with,  '  do  you  think  it'll  stop  and  show  here  ?'  and 
'  may  I  go  ?'  and  '  goody  !  goody  !'  to  a  provisional 
affirmative. 

And  there  it  was,  a  huge  coach,  and  no  caravan, 
red  as  the  setting  sun,  rocking  over  the  hill,  like  a 
ship  on  a  swell.  Down  it  came,  rolling  and  pitching 
into  the  valley,  thundered  over  the  little  bridge, 
splashed  through  the  little  brook,  till  its  wheels 
ground  slowly  and  gratingly  in  the  yellow  sand. 

It  was  an  event  —  indeed  the  event  of  the  season. 
No  body  remembered  when  a  stage  passed  here  be 
fore.  The  driver  knew  it,  for  he  sat  bolt  upright  on 
the  box,  and  handled  the  ribbons  with  an  air.  The 


THE    STAGE    IS    COMING.  125 

'  leaders'  knew  it,  for  they  tossed  their  glossy  heads, 
and  curvetted  gaily  enough. 

Memory  put  her  name  on  the  Way  Bill,  and  Thought 
took  a  journey,  a  dozen  years  or  so,  into  the  past. 

"Bright  Improvement  on  the  car  of  time"  and 
steam,  has  caused  the  old  coaches  to  disappear  alto 
gether,  in  many  parts  of  the  country,  and  with  them, 
a  chief  remembrancer  of  other  days.  Time  was, 
wh«n  the  stage,  like  the  Crocus,  was  yellow — bright 
ened  with  the  rain  or  splashed  with  the  mud,  always 
and  for  ever  yellow  as  a  Sunflower.  But  the  hand 
of  Innovation  has  dared  to  make  them  a  fiery  red  or 
a  jealous  green — to  dwarf  their  dimensions — to  turn 
off  "  the  leaders,"  and  propel  the  puny  craft  with  a 
pair  of  wheel-horses. 

That  old  yellow  coach  !  With  what  notes  of  pre 
paration,  it  entered  the  little  villages  on  the  old 
"  State  Road  !"  How  that  immemorial  horn  drawn 
from  its  sheath,  was  wound  and  wound  again,  till  the 
surrounding  woods  rang  again,  and  all  the  town  were 
at  the  doors,  and  every  lower  pane  of  glass  was  a 
juvenile  face  in  a  frame,  to  see  who  had  come,  and 
who  was  going,  and  all  about  it.  How  the  old  coach 
rattled  and  plunged  down  the  hill — how  it  thundered 
over  the  bridge — with  what  professional  skill,  the 


126  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

driver  drew  his  long  whip  from  the  top  of  the  coach, 
and  made  its  Alexandrine  lash  ring  again,  to  the  lead 
ers'  right  and  left — with  what  a  sweep  he  whirled 
up  before  the  Stage  House,  and  reined  them  in,  tiD 
the  coach  rat+led  and  rocked  like  a  ship  ashore  ! 

It  is  early  morning.  The  Landlord  comes  shuf 
fling  out  in  slippers — the  maid  stays  her  hand  at  the 
well,  to  see  who  gets  out,  and  smile  at  the  Palinurus 
of  the  craft — the  Post  Master  comes  across  the  street 
for  the  mail — a  cloud  of  steam  rises  from  the  glitter 
ing  coats  of  the  panting  team — the  relay  comes  filing 
out  from  the  adjoining  stable — some  body  in  a  green 
veil  takes  the  back  seat,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of 
two  drowsy  aldermanic  personages — the  mail-bag  is 
swung  up  beneath  the  driver's  feet — the  door  is  flung 
to,  with  a  slam — a  short,  sharp  note  or  two  upon  the 
horn — an  instant's  handling  of  the  ribbons — a  draw 
ing  of  the  lash  through  the  fingers,  as  a  surgeon  feels 
his  scalpel — an  "  all  right"  from  the  drowsy  Boniface, 
and  crack,  smack,  clatter,  swing,  away  rolls  the 
coach,  and  with  it,  the  day's  excitement. 

Then  the  acquaintances  one  used  to  form  in  the 
stage,  whose  memory  will  outlast  the  old  coaches — 
Some  body — perhaps  the  lady  in  the  green  veil,  whom 
a  lurch  of  the  stage  threw  into  your  lap  two  or  three 


A    SUMMER.   DAY    IN    HAYING.  127 

times  as  you  sat  vis-a-vis,  occasioning  two  or  three 
apologies,  until  you  felt  quite  acquainted,  and  wished 
the  coach  would  move  slower,  the  mud  grow  deeper, 
or  the  hours  longer,  lest  the  time  of  parting  should 
come  too  BOOH.  And  it  did  come,  and  though  years 
have  passed,  and  you  are  a  Benedict  these  lustrums 
of  years,  you  rememher  where  you  left  her,  and  just 
what  sort  of  a  house,  and  what  tree  grew  before  the 
door.  It  was  a  maple,  or  a  poplar — which  was  it  ? — 
you  meant  to  go  that  way  again,  but  you  never  did. 
And  she — what's  become  of  her  ?  Why,  she  wears 
a  mob-cap,  perhaps,  and  those  blue  eyes  of  hers  look 
through  green  spectacles. 
So  runs  the  world  away  ! 


ttmnur      ft     in 


FIVE  o'clock  and  a  summer  morning  !  A  few 
minutes  ago,  I  witnessed  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
spectacles  ever  presented  to  mortal  eye  :  the  opening 
of  the  GATES  OF  DAY,  and  the  Sun  standing  upon  the 
threshold,  looking  forth,  like  a  prince  in  bright  armor, 
upon  his  kingdom. 


128  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

The  blue  walls  of  heaven,  built  up  in  the  heavy 
masonry  of  night,  parted,  without  a  crash,  nay,  even 
without  the  soft  and  silken  rustle  of  a  curtain.  The 
lights  aloft,  were  put  out,  one  after  another,  to  give 
effect  to  the  scene  ;  the  gates  of  red  gold  swung  back, 
noiselessly  as  the  parting  of  soft  lips  in  dreams,  and  a 
threshold  and  hall  inlaid  with  pearl,  were  disclosed. 

There  was  a  flush,  a  gleam,  and  a  glow  over  the 
lake,  and  there,  paused  the  Sun,  as  if  enchanted  with 
the  scene  he  smiled  on.  A  moment,  and  he  stepped 
forth,  but  there  was  no  jar  ;  a  moment  more,  and 
cloud,  and  wood,  and  hill,  were  all  of  a  glory.  And 
there  was  song,  sweetest  song  ;  the  deep,  blue  Heaven 
was  full  of  voices  of  unseen  birds,  that  fluttered  at 
the  pale  portal  of  morning. 

Five  o'clock  and  a  summer  morning !  A  silver 
mist  hangs  along  the  streams,  a  few  downy  clouds  are 
afloat,  and  the  landscape  is  heavy  with  dew. 

The  cows  turned  out  from  the  milking,  are  tinkling 
their  way  along  the  winding  path  to  the  woods  ;  the 
robins  are  calling  to  each  other  in  the  orchard,  and 
an  enterprising  hen  in  the  barn,  is  giving  "  the  world 
assurance  of" — an  egg.  Some  how,  earth,  in  such  a 
morning,  looks  as  if  it  were  just  finished,  the  coloring 


A    SUMMER    DAY    IN    HAYING.  129 

not  dry,  the  mouldings  not  "  set,"  without  a  grave  or 
a  grief  in  it. 

Noting  '  the  way  of  the  wind,'  and  remembering 
that  the  sun  '  came  out,'  as  it  set,  last  night,  it  is  pro 
nounced  a  good  day  for  haying.  So  forth  to  the  mea 
dow  they  go,  the  farmer,  the  neighbors  and  the  boys, 
'  armed  and  equipped ;'  a  young  bare-footed  Com 
missary  bringing  up  the  rear  with  earthen  jug  and 
bright  tin  pail.  Much  talk  of  '  wide  swaths'  and 
'  mowings  round,'  with  laugh  and  jest,  beguiles  the 
journey  through  the  pasture  to  the  field  of  battle. 
Coats  and  jackets  fly  like  leaves  in  winter  weather, 
and  on  moves  the  phalanx  with  the  steady  step  and 
sweep,  amid  the  tall,  damp  grass.  One  bends  to  the 
scythe  as  if  it  were  an  oar,  and  pants  on  in  the  rear 
of  his  fellows.  Another  walks  erect  and  boldly  up 
to  the  grass,  the  glittering  blade  the  while,  curving 
freely  and  easily  about  his  feet.  The  fellow  in  Ken 
tucky  Jean,  expended  his  strength  in  boasting,  on  the 
way,  and  labors  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy  sea,  while  the 
quiet  chap  in  tow,  that  never  said  a  word,  is  the  pio 
neer  of  the  field. 

On  they  move,  toward  the  tremulous  woods  in  the 
distance.  One  pauses,  brings  the  snath  to  "  order 
arms,"  and  you  can  hear  the  tink-a-tink  of  '  the 
G* 


130  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

rifle,'  as  it  sharpens  the  edge  of  Time's  symbol.  An 
other  wipes  the  beaded  drops  from  his  brow,  and 
then,  the  swath-notes  blend  again,  in  full  orchestra. 

Onward  still ;  they  are  hidden  in  the  waving 
grass — all  but  a  broken  line  of  broad-brimmed  hats, 
that  rising  and  falling,  seem  to  float  slowly  over  the 
top  of  the  meadow. 

Ten  o'clock,  and  a  cloudless  sky  !  The  birds  and 
the  maples  are  silent  and  still ;  not  a  flutter  or  twit 
ter  in  woodland  or  fallow.  Far  up  in  the  blue,  a 
solitary  hawk  is  slowly  swinging  in  airy  circles  over 
the  farm.  Far  down  in  the  breathless  lake,  sweeps 
his  shadowy  fellow.  The  long,  yellow  ribbon  of  road 
leading  to  town,  is  a-quiver  with  heat.  '  Brindle' 
and  '  Red'  stand  dozing  in  the  marsh  ;  the  sheep  are 
panting  in  the  angles  of  the  fences ;  the  horses  are 
grouped  beneath  the  old  oaks ;  LOCK,  the  faithful 
guardian  of  the  night,  has  crawled  under  the  wagon 
for  its  shadow,  now  and  then,  snapping  in  his  sleep, 
at  the  flies  that  hum  around  his  pendent  ears ;  the 
cat  has  crept  up  into  the  leafy  butternut,  and  stretched 
herself,  at  length,  upon  a  limb,  to  sleep  ;  JEMMY  is 
dreaming  on  his  drowsy  perch  ;  and  even  the  butter 
flies,  weary  of  flickering  in  the  sunshine,  rest  like 
full-blown  exotics,  on  the  reeds. 


A    SUMMER   DAY    IN    HAYING.  131 

The  children  of  the  neighboring  school,  all  flushed 
and  glowing,  come  bounding  down  the  slope,  in  cou 
ples,  the  old  red  pail  swung  up  between ;  and  the 
clatter  of  the  windlass  betokens  '  the  old  oaken  bucket' 
already  dripping  up  into  the  sun,  with  its  brimming 
wealth  of  water. 

Twelve  o'clock  and  a  breathless  noon  1  The  com 
fairly  '  curls'  in  the  steady  blaze.  The  sun  has 
driven  the  shadows  around  under  the  west  and  north 
walls  ;  it  has  reached  the  noon-mark  on  the  threshold, 
and  pours  its  broad  beams  into  the  hall  ;  the  Morning 
Glories  have  '  struck'  their  colors,  and  a  little  vine 
trailed  up  the  wall  by  a  string  of  a  shroud,  shows 
decided  symptoms  of  '  letting  go.' 

The  horn  winds  for  dinner,  but  its  welcome  note 
surprises  the  mowers  in  the  midst  of  the  meadow, 
and  they'll  cut  their  way  out,  like  good  soldiers,  de 
spite  the  signal. 

Back  we  are  again  to  the  field  ;  aye,  and  back  too, 
upon  the  threshold  of  childhood.  A  chance  breath 
wafts  to  us,  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  fragrance  of  the 
new-mown  hay,  and  we  are  younger  in  memory  than 
we'll  ever  be  again.  The  angry  hum  of  the  bees 
just  thrown  out  of  house  and  home ;  and  the  whis 
tling  quail,  as  she  whirled  timidly  away  before  the 


132  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

steady  sweep  of  the  whetted  scythes  ;  and  the  shout 
of  PORTER  or  JOHNNY,  as  the  next  stroke  laid  open 
her  summer  hopes  to  the  day  ;  and  the  bell-tones  of 
the  Bob-o'-links  swinging  upon  the  willows  in  the 
'  Hollow.'  Can't  you  hear — don't  you  remember 
them  all  ? 

And  have  you  forgotten  the  green  knoll  under  the 
wide-spreading  beech — or  was  it  a  maple  ? — and  how 
hungry  you  were,  at  the  morning  lunch,  just  from 
sympathy,  though  you  hadn't  '  earned  your  salt'  for 
a  week  ?  And  the  brown  jug  filled  with  pure  cold 
water,  and — in  those  old  times,  you  know — the  little 
black  bottle,  with  something  stronger,  just  'to  qualify' 
it,  as  they  said,  that  nestled  lovingly  together,  amid 
the  cool  and  dewy  grass  in  the  fence-corner  ?  I  am 
sure  you  remember  how  the  magnificent  loads  went 
trembling  into  the  barn,  you  upon  the  top,  and  how 
they  heaped  the  new  hay  into  the  empty  '  mow,'  till 
it  was  half  as  high  as  the  ladder — up  to  the  '  big 
beam' — up  to  the  swallow-hole ;  and  how  you  crept 
up  with  a  young  troop,  and  hid  away  in  a  dark  cor 
ner,  festooned  with  cobwebs,  and  '  played'  you  were 
a  '  painter'  or  a  catamountain,  and  growled  terrifi 
cally,  to  the  unspeakable  dread  of  your  little  brother, 
or  cousin,  or  some  body.  Or,  how,  wearied  of  the 


A    SUMMER    DAY    IN    HAYING.  133 

frolic,  you  lay  upon  the  hay,  and  counted  the  dusty 
sunbeams,  as  they  streamed  through  the  crevices  in 
the  loose  siding,  and  wondered  how  they  got  out 
again,  and  how  many  it  took  to  make  a  day,  and 
passed  your  fingers  through  them,  to  and  fro,  and 
marvelled  that  you  felt  nothing. 

Many  a  time,  you  know,  you  crept  through  that 
same  meadow  with  MARY  GRAY — don't  you  remem 
ber  MARY  ? — she  lived  in  the  house  just  over  the 
hill — strawberrying.  You  picked  in  her  basket — 
don't  deny  it — and  you  always  felt  happier  than  when 
you  filled  your  own,  though  you  never  knew  why. 
You  had  a  queer  feeling  sometimes  about  the  heart, 
though  you  never  knew  what.  You  have  found  it 
all  out  since,  no  doubt. 

And  MARY  —  what  has  become  of  her?  "Why, 
'  There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death,'  that  goes 
forth  to  the  harvest  in  sweetest  Spring  and  latest 
Autumn  and  deepest  Winter  as  well,  and  Mary  and 
Ellen  and  Jane  were  long  ago  bound  up  in  "  the 
same  sure  bundle  of  life  !" 

Seven  o'clock  and  a  clear  night !  The  shadows 
and  the  mists  are  rising  in  the  valleys — the  frogs  have 
set  up  their  chorus  in  the  swamp — the  fire-flies  are 
showing  a  light  off  the  marsh — the  whip-poor-wills 


134  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

begin  their  melancholy  song — a  star  blazes  beauti 
fully  over  the  top  of  the  woods,  and  the  fair  beings 
that  people  our  childhood,  come  about  us  in  the  twi 
light — the  fair  beings 

"  Who  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  that  goes 
Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hides 
Obscured  amid  the  tempest  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven." 

The  Dead !  Cold  word  is  dead.  "What  dumb  is 
to  voice,  and  deaf  is  to  '  the  daughters  of  music,' 
that,  dead  is  to  life. 

Shall  we  know  them  again  ?  Oh !  question,  a 
thousand  times  asked,  and  a  thousand  times  answered, 
'  indeed  and  indeed  !' 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  shake  so  sweet  a  faith,  but 
beautiful  souls,  you  and  I  have  known,  that  dwelt  in 
tents  of  Kedar  ;  spirits  '  express  and  admirable,'  that 
looked,  life-long,  through  dim  and  clouded  eyes ;  lips 
touched  with  a  living  coal  from  Inspiration's  altar, 
that  were  never  modelled  from  Cupid's  silver  bow. 

There  was  '  old  Jonah,'  as  every  body  called  him, 
who  ended  his  days  in  a  cellar ;  an  African  and  a 
pauper.  Deformed,  almost  repulsive,  old  Jonah  had 
a  beautiful  soul — that  crazy,  blackened  tenement 
had  a  royal  occupant. 


A    SUMMER    DAY    IN   HAYING.  135 

And  when,  in  sunny  days,  the  old  man  crept  out, 
and  sat  by  his  cellar  door,  youth  and  age,  and  I  have 
seen  heauty  too,  often  paused  to  catch  a  gleam  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  light  hidden  in  that  dark  lantern. 

Said  a  friend  to  him,  one  day, '  Wouldn't  it  lie 
pleasant  to  die,  some  lovely  summer  morning,  like 
this,  Jonah  ?' 

'  No,  no,  Massa,  me  die  in  night — better  den.' 

<  Why,  Jonah  ?' 

'  Cos  Heaven  right  in  sight — but  little  way  to  go.' 

'  Jonah,'  playfully  remarked  some  one,  '  what  a 
pity  you  are  black  !' 

'  Oh  !  no,'  eagerly  interrupted  the  old  man,  '  me'll 
be  some  body  yet — me  in  disguise  here.  Much' sever 
you'll  know  me,  when  we  bof  git  ober  Jordan. 
You'll  see  a  man  a  comin',  so  splendid  and  beau'ful, 
and  you'll  t'ink  him  some  body  bery  great,  and  you'll 
talk  with  him  long  time,  and  den,  he'll  jes  whisper 
'  Jonah'  in  your  ear,  for  't'll  be  me  all  time  !' 

Old  Jonah  is  dead  and  gone ;  and  don't  you  think, 
when  the  tent  was  struck,  and  the  curtains  were 
withdrawn  from  the  windows,  and  there  were  no  more 
sighing  and  dying  for  him,  that  he  threw  off  the  dis 
guise,  he  had  worn  so  long  ?  That  the  old  man  was 


136  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

right,  when  he  said,  '  much'sever  you'll  know  me, 
when  we  bof  git  ober  Jordan?' 

Surely  it  is  not  strange,  either,  that  we  should  peo 
ple  the  stars  with  those  who  have  gone  on  before  ; 
that  we  should  fancy  their  gentle  eyes  bending  upon 
us  at  twilight,  '  cos,'  as  the  old  man  expressed  it, 
'  Heaven  right  in  sight.' 

But  there  blazes  the  star  still,  over  the  woods. 
'Tis 

of 


SHE  lieth  just  there  in  the  offing  of  Heaven, 
Awaiting  the  flag  at  the  "window  of  Even; 
Lo  !  the  signal  of  crimson  and  gold  is  unfurled, 
And  it  flingeth  a  glory  that  flusheth  the  world  ! 

No  sound  of  artillery  smiteth  the  ear  — 
So  calm  you  can  catch  e'en  the  fall  of  a  tear  1  — 
That  foot-print  of  grief,  on  the  cheek  that  is  wet 
At  thoughts  of  the  past,  we  would  never  forget. 
A  moment,  that  banner  is  burning  the  sky  — 
A  moment,  its  beauty  is  lighting  the  eye  — 
A  moment  —  its  glory  and  beauty  depart^ 
Transferred  to  the  sky  in  the  west  of  the  heart 

Behold  now,  far  out  in  the  harbor  of  Heaven, 
A  light  like  a  star,  from  the  Flag-ship  of  JSven  1 
Her  silver-fluked  anchor,  so  steady  and  true, 
As  lightly  is  swinging  and  dripping  with  blue, 
As  swung  o'er  the  sleeper  the  Bethel-bent  beam 
That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  Patriarch's  dream  ! 


A    SUMMER    DAY    IN    HAYING.  137 

Her  cable  of  crystal,  and  spars  of  the  day, — 
Beneath  her  dance  doubles,  and  spangle  her  way ! 
Her  sails  of  weft  glory,  her  cordage  of  light  1 — 
Oh !  bravely  she  rides  on  the  billows  of  night ! — 
Those  billows  that  break  on  the  shores  of  our  earth — 
The  pulse  of  an  infant  awaking  to  birth. 

As  glimmers  the  moon  through  the  rack  of  the  storm, 

So,  hard  by  her  helm,  I  can  fancy  a  form ; 

The  form  of  an  Angel,  with  tremulous  wings, 

A  look  deep  and  tender — a  vision  that  brings 

A  pang  to  the  heart  and  a  tear  to  the  eye, 

For  loved  ones  and  lost  ones  that  never  can  die  ! 

Whoso  better  and  brighter  e'en  death  cannot  sever — 

Enshrined  in  the  soul,  and  enshrined  there  for  ever  1 

Oh !  child  of  my  dreams — indweller  of  Heaven  ! 
I  see  thee  conducting  the  Flag-Star  of  Even  I 
Oh !  Flag-Star  of  Even  1  I  would  it  were  mine, 
To  leave  this  dull  port  and  become  one  of  thine  I 

Not  a  breath  moves  a  streamer,  or  rattles  a  shroud ; 

On  she  comes  like  the  morn,  and  still  as  a  cloud ! 

On  she  comes  through  the  clear  azure  sea  of  the  ether, 

From  God's  throne  co-etern',  to  earth's  cradle  beneath  her. 

No  crashing  of  wave,  no  thunder  of  billow — 

Calm  as  a  maiden's  cheek  pressed  to  her  pillow ! 

As  forms  of  bright  clouds  in  the  waters  beneath, 

As  dim  o'er  the  mirror  just  touched  by  a  breath, 

So  silently  on  through  the  motionless  Heaven, 

To  the  gates  of  the  west  sweeps  the  Flag-Ship  of  Even — 

O'er  the  heaven-bathed  hills  on  the  verge  of  the  world, 

O'er  the  tremulous  woods,  her  sails  but  half  furled, 

She  rides  on  the  billows  that  break  from  the  shore, 

She  comes — ah !  she  wavers,  and  nears  us  no  more  1 


138  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

Hark !  soft  to  mine  ear  from  the  Flag-Star  of  Even, 

The  sweet  and  unwritten  IONIC  of  Heaven ! 

Like  the  foot-fall  of  thought  in  the  halls  of  the  soul  ? — 

Like  the  coming  of  twilight,  around  me  it  stole — 

Like  the  music  of  wings  it  filled  all  the  air, 

And  I  knew  in  my  soul,  a  spirit  was  there  ! 

The  words  that  -were  said,  I  can  never  impart, 

They  smote  not  the  ear,  but  they  fell  on  the  heart 

As  glitters  the  dew  in  the  heart  of  the  flower, 

So  deep  in  my  heart  lies  the  thought  of  that  hour ; 

When  the  breath  of  life's  fever  shall  wither  the  will, 

That  thought  in  my  heart  will  be  lingering  still! 

When  the  fingers  of  Care  weave  thorns  in  my  pillow, 

Like  lilies,  there  still  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 

'Twill  heave  with  my  bosom,  safely  moored  in  the  deep, 

Where  the  waters  of  feeling  e'er  sparkle  and  sleep  ; 

When  life's  shadow  grows  long,  it  will  linger  there  yet, 

Like  stars  in  mid-heaven  that  never  can  set 

Oh !  vision  celestial !  wherever  thou  art, 

Magnetic  to  thee  turns  the  thought  of  my  heart ; 

I  have  watched  thee  slow-threading  the  glittering  flood 

That  pours  round  the  throne — the  AEGEAN  of  God! 

I  have  traced  thee  again,  my  beautiful  one, 

'Mid  the  splendors  of  day  o'er  the  disk  of  the  sun! 

When  the  billows  of  morn  break  bright  on  the  air, 

On  the  breast  of  the  brightest,  my  angel  is  there! 

When  the  wings  of  my  spirit  are  pluming  for  Heaven, 

I'll  wander  with  thee,  gallant  Flag-Ship  of  Even  1 


THE    LAST   ROSE    OF   SUMMER.  139 


0f  Swmnur. 


ONE  of  the  boys  brought  me  a  rose,  a  red  rose,  to 
day,  or  rather  a  red  rose  to  be,  for  it  is  nothing  but  a 
bud  yet  ;  and  there  was  wisdom  in  that,  unusual  in 
this  queer  world. 

A  full-blown  blessing  is  pretty  near  ready  to  fade, 
and  so  the  urchin  brought  me  a  rose  before  it  was  a 
rose. 

Frosts  stay  late,  and  come  early,  in  the  great  lati 
tude  of  earth,  and  nearly  all  our  hopes  and  happiness 
are  in  the  bud  —  always  in  the  bud.  They  seldom 
blossom  —  they  seldom  ripen  —  they  keep  us  waiting 
for  summer  ;  '  the  early  rains'  of  the  human  heart 
fall,  but  somehow  a  winter  intervenes  between  April 
and  July  —  '  the  latter  rains'  are  shed  upon  our 
graves,  and  the  buds  ne'er  come  to  blooming. 

Well,  were  there  no  'better  land,'  no  brighter 
skies,  no  fairer  flowers,  Death's  door  would  be  a 
darker  portal  than  it  is. 

But  there  is  more  about  this  bud,  that  the  Chemist 
might  find  out.  It  is  dust  —  nothing  but  tinted  and 
fragrant  dust  ;  and  into  what  forms,  may  it  not  have 


140  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

entered,  in  the  transmigrations  of  time !  Perhaps 
the  very  iron  that  lends  the  blush  to  the  half-folded 
leaves,  that  the  gentle  winds  would  have  unravelled, 
had  it  not  been  among  -'the  last  roses  of  summer," 
has  given  color  to  some  cheek  that  grew  pale  when 
the  King  of  Shadows  came — some  cheek  that  had 
glowed  beneath  the  lips  of  beauty,  or  at  the  first  soft 
whisper  of  love — some  cheek  whose  elements  were 
strown  to  the  winds ;  but  kind  Nature  cared  for 
them  all,  and  shaped  them  out  anew,  in  the  bud  of 
beauty  that  now  lies  withering  before  me. 

So,  if  it  ever  be  your  lot — God  grant  it  never 
may  ! — to  stand  by  the  grave  of  one  who  died  in 
beauty — one  whom  you  loved,  living,  and  mourned, 
dead,  and  the  little  billow  of  green  turf  above  her 
has  subsided,  and  a  rose-tree  waves  there,  in  the  soft 
summer  air,  leave  a  tear  on  it,  if  you  will,  but  pluck 
not  a  bud  ! 

In  what  disguisings  does  the  past  still  linger  around 
us !  "  The  Dead  Past !"  It  is  not  dead  ;  it  lives  in 
the  flower,  the  fountain,  and  the  bow. 

Nay,  the  very  tears  shed  by  Humanity  yesterday, 
are  in  the  pearly  and  golden  clouds  of  to-day. 

In  the  grand  cycle  of  being,  Death  is  nothing  but 
change — 


141 


"  a  sra-change, 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 


SUMMER  '  was  a  lady — last  night  she  died.'  A 
trifle  too  ardent  sometimes,  perhaps,  but  then,  beauti 
ful — but  then,  gone. 

What  a  glorious  company  of  Summers  there  must 
be,  some  where,  to  be  sure  !  Eighteen  hundred  and 
fifty-three,  since  the  new  count  began  ;  and  no  body 
knows,  very  certainly,  how  many  before  that. 

Oh !  for  some  new  Machinist  to  arise,  who  shall 
construct  a  '  brake'  for  Time.  Oh !  for  a  shrill  North 
Easter,  to  '  whistle  it  down.'  Wouldn't  we  bring  up 
Time  at  the  first  Summer  Station  he  came  to,  and 
keep  him  in  a  Depot  of  flowers  perennially  ?  June 
should  begin  in  January — December  be  as  '  pleasant 
as  May.' 


fall. 

FALL  !  How  eloquent  the  word !  The  flowers 
fall  in  the  gardens,  the  fruits  fall  in  the  orchards,  the 
nuts  fall  in  the  woods,  '  the  stars  '  fall  in  the  sky,  the 
rains  fall  from  the  clouds,  the  mercury  falls  in  the 
tubes,  the  leaves  fall  every  where,  and  FALL  it  is. 

The  wind  is  sighing  round  the  corners,  moaning 
over  the  thresholds,  singing  at  the  windows,  roaring 
over  the  chimney-tops,  and  harping  through  the 
forests. 

The  gray  clouds  look  angry  and  sullen.  The  great, 
heavy  drops  come  driving  against  the  window-panes  ; 
the  cattle  stand  in  the  fields,  with  the  wind  astern  ; 
the  sheep  gather  under  the  lee  of  the  barn.  They 
'  banked  up  '  the  house,  yesterday  ;  put  the  cabbages 
in  the  cellar,  the  day  before  ;  will  cover  the  potatoes 


144  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

to-morrow.  MACK  and  PORT  call  for  their  mittens — 
the  blue  and  white  mittens — the  immemorial  mittens, 
tethered  with  a  string. 

The  black-birds,  a  rabble  rout,  hold  high  council 
of  flight,  on  a  dry  elm  in  the  meadow  ;  there  is  a 
twitter,  and  a  flutter,  and  a  great  acclamation.  Up 
go  the  swallows  in  a  cloud  ;  away  ride  the  sparrows 
on  the  billowy  air.  The  robin  and  his  wife  hear  the 
sound  of  wings  in  the  thicket,  and  go  too.  The  owl 
looks  out  from  his  hollow  tree,  and  gathers  still  closer, 
his  russet  muffler  about  his  ears. 

The  ridged  and  tawny  fields  look  like  corduroy ; 
their  rustling  and  golden  glories  have  departed.  The 
corn  stands  shivering  in  long  lines,  wrapped  in  rusty 
overalls,  like  a  regiment  of 

1  Old  Continentals  in  their  ragged  regimentals ;' 

The  pumpkins  lie  in  great  heaps,  here  and  there,  like 
cannon-shot. 

Little  '  flurries '  of  snow  whirl  doubtfully  through 
the  cloudy  air,  and  sift  over  the  dark,  old  fallow.  The 
sun  goes  down  with  a  bounce ;  it  is  dark  before 
night. 

The  asparagus  is  bundled  out  of  the  fire-place,  the 
old  andirons  are  wheeled  into  line,  the  hearth  is  a 


FALL.  145 

blaze,  the  windows  are  curtained,  the  old  circle  is 
narrowed  around  the  old-fashioned  fire. 

Just  the  season  for  Saturday  nights  !  What  blessed 
things  they  are,  and  what  would  the  world  do  with 
out  them  ?  Those  breathing  moments  in  the  tramp 
ing  march  of  life  ;  those  little  twilights  in  the  broad 
and  garish  glare  of  noon,  when  pale  yesterdays  look 
beautiful  through  the  shadows,  and  faces  '  changed ' 
long  ago,  smile  sweetly  again  in  the  hush  ;  when  one 
remembers  '  the  old  folks  at  home,'  and  the  old-fash 
ioned  fire,  and  the  old  arm-chair,  and  the  little  brother 
that  died,  and  the  little  sister  that  was  '  translated.' 

Saturday  nights  make  people  human  ;  set  their 
hearts  to  beating  softly,  as  they  used  to  do,  before  the 
world  turned  them  into  war-drums,  and  jarred  them 
to  pieces  with  tattoos. 

The  ledger  closes  with  a  clash  ;  the  iron-door'd 
vaults  come  to  with  a  bang  ;  up  go  the  shutters  with 
a  will  ;  click,  goes  the  key  in  the  lock.  It  is  Satur 
day  night,  and  Business  breathes  free  again.  Home 
ward,  ho  !  The  door  that  has  been  ajar  all  the  week, 
gently  closes  behind  him  ;  the  world  is  shut  out.  Shut 
out  ?  Shut  in,  the  rather.  Here  are  his  treasures 
after  all,  and  not  in  the  vault,  and  not  in  the  book, 


146  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

(save  the  record  in  the  old  family  Bible,)  and  not  in 
the  bank. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  has  a  little  home  and  a 
little  angel  in  it,  of  a  Saturday  night.  Such  a  night 
as  last  night  was  ;  cloudy,  gloomy,  gusty,  rainy. 
Casements  rattling,  Btorm  driving,  lake  roaring  along 
the  shore. 

So  much  for  the  out-door  scenery.  Now  for  the 
in-door ;  a  martin-box  of  a  house,  no  matter  how 
little,  provided  it  will  hold  two  or  BO  ;  no  matter  how 
humbly  furnished,  provided  there  is  hope  in  it.  Let 
the  winds  blow — close  the  curtains  !  "What  if  they 
are  calico,  or  plain  white,  without  border,  or  tassel, 
or  any  such  thing  ?  Let  the  rains  come  down  :  heap 
up  the  fire,  but  it  must  be  an  open  fire  ;  none  of  your 
dark,  prison-looking  stoves. 

No  matter  if  you  haven't  a  candle  to  bless  yourself 
with,  for  what  a  beautiful  light  glowing  coals  make, 
reddening,  clouding,  shedding  a  sunset  through  the 
little  room  ;  just  light  enough  to  talk  by ;  not  loud, 
as  in  the  highways — not  rapid,  as  in  the  hurrying 
world  ;  but  softly,  slowly,  whisperingly,  with  pauses 
between,  for  the  storm  without,  and  the  thoughts 
within,  to  fill  up. 

Then  wheel  the  sofa  round  before  the  fire.      No 


FALL.  147 

matter  if  the  sofa's  a  settee,  uncushioned  at  that,  if 
so  be  it  is  just  long  enough  for  two,  or  say  two  and  a 
half,  with  the  two  or  two  and  a  half  in  it.  How 
sweetly  the  music  of  silver  bells  from  the  time  to 
come,  falls  on  the  listening  heart  then.  How  mourn 
fully  swell  the  chimes  of  '  the  days  that  are  no  more.' 

Under  such  circumstances,  and  at  such  a  time,  one 
can  get  at  least  sixty-nine  and  a  half  statute  miles 
nearer  '  kingdom  come,'  than  from  any  other  point  in 
this  world  laid  down  in  '  Malte  Brun.' 

Maybe  you  smile  at  this  picture.  Well,  smile  on, 
there  is  a  secret  between  us,  viz.  :  it  is  a  copy  of  a 
picture,  rudely  done,  but  true  as  the  Pentateuch,  of 
an  original  in  every  really  human  heart.  Are  you 
so  old  or  so  wicked,  that  the  cabinet  picture  is  dimmed 
or  damaged  beyond  '  restoration  ?'  Then  be  shrived, 
make  a  Saturday  night  of  life,  and  bid  '  good  night ' 
to  the  world. 

Maybe  you  think  this  a  ridiculous  picture  :  then 
Heaven  mend  and  Alison  cultivate  your  taste. 

Maybe  you  are  a  bachelor,  frosty  and  forty.  Then, 
poor  fellow  !  Saturday  night's  nothing  to  you,  just  as 
you  are  nothing  to  any  body.  Get  a  wife,  blue-eyed 
or  black-eyed,  but  above  all,  true-eyed,  get  a  little 
home,  no  matter  how  little,  and  a  little  sofa,  just  to 
hold  two,  or  two  and  a  half,  and  then  get  the  two,  or 


148  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

the  two  and  a  half  in  it,  of  a  Saturday  Night,  and 
then  read  this  paragraph  by  the  light  of  your  wife's 
eyes,  and  thank  God  and  take  courage. 

The  dim  and  dusty  shops  are  swept  up  ;  the  ham 
mer  is  thrown  down,  the  apron  is  doffed,  and  Lahor 
hastens  with  a  light  step,  homeward  bound. 

"  Saturday  Night,'  feebly  murmurs  the  languishing, 
as  she  turns  wearily  upon  her  couch,  '  and  is  there 
another  to  come  ?' 

'  Saturday  night,  at  last,'  whispers  the  weeper 
above  the  dying,  '  and  it  is  Sunday  to-morrow  and 
to-morrow.' 

INDIAN     SUMMER. 

THE  Year  has  paused  to  remember,  and  beautiful 
her  memories  are.  She  recalls  the  Spring  ;  how  soft 
the  air  !  And  the  Summer ;  how  deep  and  warm 
the  sky  !  And  the  harvest ;  how  pillar'd  and  golden 
the  clouds  !  And  the  rainbows  and  the  sunsets  ;  how 
gorgeous  are  the  woods  ! 

Indian  Summer  is  Nature's  '  sober,  second  thought,' 
and  to  me,  the  sweetest  of  her  thinkings.  A  veil  of 
golden  gauze  trails  through  the  air ;  the  woods,  in 
dishabille,  are  gay  with  the  hectic  flushes  of  the  Fall ; 
and  the  bright  Sun,  relenting,  comes  meekly  back 


INDIAN    SUMMER.  149 

again,  as  if  he  would  not  go  to  Capricorn.  He  has 
a  kindly  look  ;  he  no  longer  dazzles  one's  eyes  out, 
but  has  a  sunset  softness  in  his  face,  and  fairly  blushes 
at  the  trick  he  meditated.  Round,  red  Sun !  rich 
ruby  in  the  jewelry  of  God  !  it  sets  as  big  as  the 
woods ;  and  ten  acres  of  forest,  in  the  distance,  are 
relieved  upon  the  great  disc — a  rare  device  upon  a 
glorious  medallion.  The  sweet  south-wind  has  come 
again,  and  breathes  softly  through  the  woods,  till 
they  rustle  like  a  banner  of  crimson  and  gold ;  and 
waltzes  gaily  with  the  dead  leaves  that  strew  the 
ground,  and  whirls  them  quite  away  sometimes,  in  its 
frolic,  over  the  fields  and  the  fences,  and  into  the 
brook,  in  whose  little  eddies  they  loiter  on  the  way, 
and  never  get '  down  to  the  sea '  at  all. 

Who  wonders  that,  with  this  mirage  of  departed 
Summer  in  sight,  the  peach  trees  sometimes  lose  their 
reckoning,  fancy  Winter,  pale  fly-leaf  in  the  book  of 
Time,  has  somehow  slipped  out,  and  put  forth  their 
rosy  blossoms,  only  to  be  carried  away,  to-morrow  or 
to-morrow,  by  the  blasts  of  November  ? 

And  with  the  sun  and  the  wind,  here  are  the  birds 
once  more.  A  bluebird  warbles  near  the  house,  as  it 
used  to  do ;  the  sparrows  are  chirping  in  the  bushes, 
and  the  wood-robins  flicker  like  flakes  of  fire  through 


150  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

the  trees.  Now  and  then,  a  crimson  or  yellow  leaf 
winnows  its  way  slowly  down,  through  the  smoky 
light,  and  "  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard  "  in 
the  still  woods.  The  brook,  that  a  little  while  ago, 
stole  along  in  the  shadow,  rippling  softly  round  the 
boughs  that  trailed  idly  in  its  waters,  now  twinkles 
all  the  way,  on  its  journey  down  to  the  lake. 

It  is  the  Saturday  night  of  Nature  and  the  Year — 

'  Their  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge,  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness,  forms  an  arch  sublime.' 

There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done ;  every  thing  is 
packed  up  ;  the  wardrobe  of  Spring  and  Summer  is 
all  folded  in  those  little  russet  and  rude  cases,  and 
laid  away  here  and  there,  some  in  the  earth,  and 
some  in  the  water,  and  some  flung  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  winds,  and  lost,  as  we  say — but  after  all,  no  more 
lost  than  is  the  little  infant,  when,  laid  upon  a  pil 
low,  it  is  rocked  and  swung,  this  way  and  that,  in  the 
arms  of  a  careful  mother.  So  the  dying,  smiling 
Year,  is  all  ready  to  go. 

"Ay,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath, 
"Wlien  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 
And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 


INDIAN    SUMMER.  151 

Wind  of  tho  sunny  South  1  oh,  still  delay, 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age,  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

With  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 
Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and  brooks; 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh : 
And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 
Pass  silently  from  men  as  thoit  dost  pass." 


HERE  I  am,  to-day,  sitting  by  an  open  window,  thf 
wind,  as  gentle  as  June,  playfully  lifting  the  corners 
of  the  paper  I  write  on,  and  letting  them  softly  down 
again  ;  while  yesterday,  or  the  day  before,  I  was  in 
perihelion,  nestled  'close  in  the  chimney  corner  ;  and 

the  wind could  it  have  been  this  same  wind,  now 

toying  with  the  tassel  of  the  curtain,  that  in  such  a 
mood,  twisted  up  a  little  oak  by  the  roots,  that  never 
did  any  harm,  and  hollow-voiced  and  frosty  from  the 
dim  north-west,  made  penny-whistles  of  the  huge, 
old-fashioned  chimney-tops  ? 

Nature  is  a  good  deal  of  a  rhetorician ;  she  loves 
rapid  transitions  and  startling  contrasts. 

Time  itself,  all  through  the  long-drawn  past,  is  in 
laid  with  day  and  night — night  and  day.  Suppose  it 
had  been  all  day  through  the  world  ;  it  would  havo 


152  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

been  '  all  day'  with  us — our  happiness,  our  interests, 
and  life  would  be  "  dull"  at  eighty  cents  on  the  dollar. 
Now,  we  are  like  those  wandering  at  leisure  from 
room  to  room,  in  some  splendid  suite  of  apartments, 
divided  by  the  dark  and  marble  walls  of  night.  We 
enter  some  beautiful  day,  pearl  for  its  threshold  and 
crimson  for  its  curtains.  With  what  music  they 
rustle,  as  unseen  hands  lift  them  to  let  us  through  ! 
And  what  varied  surprises  keep  us  on  the  qui  vive 
all  along,  as  we  pass  through  it !  And  how  gorgeous 
the  drapery  let  down  behind  us,  as  we  enter  the  dark 
opening  in  the  walls  of  night — those  walls  GOD 
built,  and  yet,  through  which,  at  a  thousand  points, 
shine  divided  days,  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  ! 

And  what  a  lamp — no  'Astral,'  but  a  true  Lunar, 
is  hung  in  the  passage-way ;  and  then,  when  we  have 
done  wandering  through  this  great  temple  of  Time, 
and  pass  the  last  door,  and  the  veil  closes  down  be 
fore  the  last  day,  and  we  find  ourselves  "  out-doors" 
in  the  Universe,  and  free  to  go  whither  we  will — 
children  again — aye,  children  "just  let  loose  from 
school,"  how  we  shall  scatter  away  over  fields  all 
flowers,  and  no  frosts,  where  there  is  no  such  word  as 
November,  and  no  such  thought  as  death.  Life  will 
be  life  still,  but  without  its  struggle,  and  ourselves 
still  ourselves,  but  with  windows  all  around  the  soul. 


AND   SUCH   A    CHANGE.  153 

We  shall  see  hearts  beat  as  plainly  then,  as  we  now 
see  the  movements  of  delicate  chronometers  beneath 
their  crystal  cases  —  emotions  will  be  visible  —  the 
footfalls  of  thought  audible — the  trickery  of  light  and 
shade  by-gone,  and  things  will  appear  as  they  are. 

And  the  pleasant  surprises  that  shall  meet  us 
then ;  perhaps  the  trees  will  grow  by  music,  and  the 
streams  murmur  articulate ;  perhaps  we  shall  meet 
and  recognize  those  who  had  gone  on  before.  New 
scenes,  new  beauties,  new  thoughts — every  where 
'  plus  ultra' —  more  beyond. 

* 

"  AND    SUCH   A   CHANGE." 

THE  glories  of  twilight  have  departed,  and  the 
gray  night  of  the  year  has,  at  last,  set  in. 

The  tree  by  my  window  has  thrown  off  the  red 
and  yellow  livery  it  has  worn  of  late,  and  with  naked 
arms  tossing  wildly  about,  stands  shivering  in  the 
gusts,  dismantled  and  desolate.  Strange  to  say,  I 
love  it  better  than  when  song  and  shadow  met  in  its 
branches — better  than  ever  ;  but  it  is  not  a  love  born 
of  pity  ;  it  needs  none,  for  its  life  is  locked  up  safely 
in  the  earth  beneath,  and  whistle  as  it  will,  the  boat 
swain  of  a  winter  wind  cannot  pipe  up  a  pulse  or  a 
7* 


154  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

bud.     Through  its  leafless  limbs,  I  can  see  Heaven, 
now,  and  there  are  no  stars  in  the  trees  in  June. 

The  Sweet  Brier  creaks  uneasily  against  the  wall ; 
the  snow  is  heaped  on  the  window-sill ;  the  frost  is 
'  castle-building'  on  the  panes  ;  the  streams  are  dumb  ; 
the  woods  stand  motionless  under  the  weight  of  white 
winter. 

It  is  Saturday — Saturday  afternoon  ;  the  children 
"just  let  loose  from  school,"  and  Clear  Lake  is 
swarming  with  juvenile  skaters. 

Grouped  here  and  there  in  clusters,  like  swarms  of 
bees  or  bevies  of  blackbirds  in  council,  now  and  then, 
one  and  another  and  a  third  dash  not  in  graceful 
circles,  with  motion  as  easy  as  flying.  Huge  sixes 
and  sweeping  eights,  and  eagles  with  enormous 
length  of  wing,  are  "  cut"  upon  the  "  solid  water." 

Presently,  the  whole  cluster  break  and  fly  in  every 
direction,  like  a  flock  of  pigeons.  There  go  a  brace 
in  a  trial  of  speed  ;  there,  a  Castor  and  Pollux,  hand 
in  hand ;  here,  a  game  of  goal  is  going  on,  and  here, 
a  game  of  "  red  lion." 

Away  there,  lies  a  little  fellow  upon  his  back, 
taking  his  first  lesson  in  Skater's  Astronomy.  Ask 
him,  and  he  will  tell  you  he  '  saw  stars'  but  a  mo 
ment  ago,  that  never  were  named. 


SUCH   A   CHANGE.  155 

The  sun  is  going  down  in  the  west,  and  they  have 
been  upon  the  ice  since  high  noon.  But  what  is  that 
to  them  ?  What  care  they  for  cold,  and  fatigue,  and 
time  ?  Saturday  comes  but  once  a  week,  and  ice 
hardly  once  a  year.  But  they'll  find  ice  enough  by 
and  by — ice  in  midsummer — iced  hopes,  iced  friend 
ships,  icy  hearts.  And  as  for  the  Saturdays,  they'll 
grow  "  few  and  far  between" — they'll  not  come  once 
a  week,  nor  once  a  month ;  and  happy  will  he  be, 
who  has  a  Saturday  afternoon  and  evening  to  end  his 
life  with. 

Then  who  says,  the  boys  sha'n't  skate  ?  "Who 
grudges  them  the '"  rockers  ?"  Look  at  that  little 
fellow  now  ;  on  one  arm,  hang  his  skates,  "  a  brand 
new"  pair,  glittering  like  a  couple  of  scimetars.  'Tis 
his  first  appearance  on  the  Skater's  field.  DoAvn  he 
gets  upon  the  ice  ;  his  little  red  and  white  mittens 
tethered  with  a  string,  lie  beside  him,  while  with  his 
chubby  red  fingers,  he  dallies  and  tugs  with  buckles 
and  straps,  every  now  and  then  blowing  his  fingers 
to  keep  them  in  a  glow.  All  right  and^tight,  he's 
rigged,  he's  ready,  he's  up  and  off!  What  warrior 
ever  harnessed  for  the  field  and  the  fray,  with  a 
richer  pride  mantling  his  cheek,  or  a  brighter  joy 


156  JANUARY   AND   JUNE.* 

lighting  his  eye  !     There  may  have  been  one  or  two, 
but  there  is  no  record  of  them  in  Froissart 


MUSING  here  by  the  sleepy  fire,  this  stormy  night, 
about  "  one  thing  and  another,"  the  chime  of  bells, 
little  and  big,  comes  sweetly  to  my  ear  through  the 
snowy  air. 

Those  sounds  are  mnemonic — they  are  the  sweet 
bells  of  the  past ;  and  in  the  time  of  a  single  note, 
we  are  back  again  into  the  vanished  years,  in  a  win 
ter's  night,  the  moon  at  the  full,  "  some  body  very 
near,"  and  the  merry  bells  ringing  as  they  ring  now. 
How  silvery  were  the  laughs  that  issued  then,  from 
beneath  the  downy  mufflers  and  quilted  hoods.  How 
bright  were  the  eyes  that  glittered  through  green  veils 
then,  like  stars  through  a  leafy  wood. 

Bells !  There  have  been  knells  since  then,  and 
those  who  "  make  no  new  friends,"  must  journey 
alone.  You  who  vaunt  upon  life  and  station,  and  the 

**• 

permanence  of  things  earthly,  return  to  the  scenes  of 
your  youthful  days  of  a  winter's  night.  And  the 
'  turn  out ' — let  it  be  as  of  old,  and  call  here  and 


THE  OLD  TIMES  AND  THE  NEW.       157 

there,  where  dwelt  the  companions  of  a  brighter 
time.  Here  the  stranger,  there  the  estranged,  and 
there,  echo  answers  to  your  impatient  rap. 

The  horses  are  at  the  gate,  eager  to  be  gone,  and 
shake  music  from  those  bells  at  every  toss  of  the 
head.  But  it  is  not  music  to  you,  and  turning  slowly 
homeward,  you  pass,  in  the  moonlight,  a  field  furrowed 
with  many  a  drifted  heap.  It  is  "  God's  Field,"  and 
many  who  were  your  companions  on  just  such  a  night, 
lie  silent  there.  Ay !  muffle  the  bells  for  memory, 
and  pass  on,  a  sadder  but  a  wiser  man. 


fit*  ®I&  f  to  mb  %  $feto. 

How's  your  memory  ?  Does  it  run  away  back  to 
the  days  of  life's  "  drowsy  east,"  and  do  the  days  that 
are  gone  shine  yet  upon  the  further  borders  of  it  ? 
Or  have  you  one  of  those  narrow  memories,  not  broad 
enough  for  any  thing  but  yesterday  and  the  day  be 
fore  ?  And  what  do  you  keep  in  it  ?  Have  you 
turned  it  into  a  blotter  to  put  "  credits"  to  yourself, 
and  "  debits"  to  some  body  else  in  ;  a  sort  of  meagre 
Almanac  of  "  bills  receivable  ?"  Or  is  it  a  beautiful 


158  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

place,  like  Laurel  Hill  or  Greenwood,  filled  with  the 
past — sweet  records  of  joys  departed — brighter  days 
and  downier  hours  ?     If  so,  and  I  hope  so,  do  you 
remember  the  village  church,  and  the  choir,  and  the 
minister,  and  how  they  used  to  do  then,  and  all  about 
it  ?     And  what  wouldn't  you  and  I  give,  to  be  set 
back  into  the  middle  of  one  of  those  long  Sunday 
afternoons,  in  one  of  those  old-fashioned  square  pews, 
with  our  feet  swinging  about  eight  or  ten  inches 
above  the  floor,  mother  on  one  side  with  the  everlast 
ing   sprig  of  carraway ;   father  on  the  other ;   the 
singers  on  the  high  seats,  away  back  ;  the  minister 
come,  and  all  ready  ?     Don't  you  remember  the  pul 
pit  ?     A  queer  thing,  shaped  like  a  swallow's  nest,  and 
fastened  like  a  swallow's  nest  to  the  wall,  about  mid 
way  between  floor  and  ceiling.     Or  perhaps  it  was  a 
great,  square,  two-story  device,  with  the  architecture 
of  a  wheat-bin,   and  a  dungeon  of  a  place  to  put 
wood  in,  underneath.     I'll  wager  a  "  concordance"  it 
was  one  or  the  other.     And  what  wouldn't  you  give, 
to  have  the  faith  in  one  man  that  you  had  in  that 
old-fashioned  minister  ?     Were  you  afraid  of  thunder, 
and  don't  you  recollect  when  father  asked  him  home 
because  it  was  likely  to  rain,  and  it  did  rain,  and  the 
thunder  jarred  the   tangled   sunbeams   out  of  the 


THE  OLD  TIMES  AND  THE  NEW.       159 

cloud,  how  safe  you  felt  because  the  minister  was 
there  ?  Ah  !  a  child's  sweet  faith  was  made  before 
Franklin  dreamed  of  fixing  bayonet  against  the  tem 
pest.  And  do  you  remember  the  day  he  died,  and 
how  you  wondered  so  good  a  man  could  die — how  it 
shook  your  confidence  in  the  permanence  of  earthly 
things,  and  made  you  sad  and  fearful,  and  gave  you 
something  to  think  of,  when  the  folks  thought  you 
were  asleep  ?  And  how  he  preached  !  What  sim 
plicity,  what  eloquence,  what  fervor  !  But  alas  !  for 
it, '  the  prayers  of  David,  the  son  of  Jesse,  are  ended.' 

And  don't  you  remember  how  the  gray  heads  were 
sprinkled  among  the  congregation  of  tresses  '  brown 
in  the  shadow,  golden  in  the  sun,'  like  the  first  snow- 
flakes  of  November  ?  Well,  they  are  not  there  now. 
There  has  been  a  sun  or  so  too  many,  and  melted 
them"  all  away.  Old  Deacon  so-and-so,  that  used  to 
sit  hard  by  the  pulpit,  now  sits  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  that  runs  hard  by  the  throne.  Who  can  doubt 
it  ?  He  had  a  heart  open  as  the  day  to  melting 
charity  ;  he  sang  a  little  too  nasal,  then,  we  remem 
ber,  but  he  has  a  "  new  song"  and  a  new  harp  now. 

Those  were  the  good  old  times  of  the  Church, 
nearer  the  days  of  the  Pilgrims,  the  Covenanters,  and 


160  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Heaven.  New  songs,  new  sermons,  new  doctrines, 
and  new  faces  have  taken  their  places.  Sacred  be 
the  memory  of  the  old  times  for  ever  ! 


"  How  much  did  it  weigh  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"  I  never  !"     "  You  don't  say  it !" 

Thousands  of  times  has  this  question  been  asked, 
and  thousands  of  times  has  it  been  wondered  at  and 
'  I  never'd.' 

And  what  commodity  is  it  that  is  '  great '  at  ten 
pounds  and  a  marvel  at  thirteen  ?  Don't  mind  the 
Price  Current,  for  it  isn't  there.  It  was  a  something 
bundled  in  a  flannel  blanket — the  blanket  securely 
pinned  and  knotted  at  the  corners — the  something,  iii 
an  active  state  of  '  unrest,'  as  the  transcendentals 
have  it.  The  steelyards  had  been  called  into  requi 
sition,  and  its  bended  iron  was  indeed  '  hooks  to  hang 
a  hope  on.'  The  little  bundle  was  swung  up ;  the 
weight  clicked  along  the  bar.  "  TJiafs  the  notch  ! 
Eight  and  a  half!"  Eight  and  a  half  of  what  ? 


QUEER    ESTIMATES.  161 

Why,  of — humanity.  By  the  memory  of  Malthus, 
there's  a  baby  in  the  blanket !  So  there  is — a  little 
voter,  or,  if  not  that,  as  Shakspeare  says,  '  a  child.' 
Something  that  may  cut  a  figure  in  the  world,  break 
heads  or  hearts — have  a  great  name,  and  be  a  man 
or  a  woman.  Eight  pounds  and  a  half  of  a  hero  or 
a  heroine,  a  monster  or  a  minister.  Piety  and  pa 
triotism  by  the  pound.  Beauty  and  baseness  by  the 
blanketful.  Queer  measurement,  isn't  it  ?  but  there 
are  queerer  still. 

Time  wears  on  apace  with  us  all,  and  the  some 
thing  in  the  blanket  too.  He  is  a  boy  of  five.  He 
stands  erect  as  God  made  him,  '  that  he  may  look,' 
as  a  writer  finely  says,  '  upon  the  stars.'  They  are 
talking  again,  but  the  steelyards  hang  undisturbed  in 
the  cellar-way.  No  use  for  them  now.  But  they 
are  talking,  and  we  not  listening 

'  Tall  of  his  age,  isn't  he  ?'  '  He  looks  over  the 
table  like  a  man ;  the  '  high-chair'  was  put  away 
months  ago !' 

Tall,  is  he  ?  Three  feet  and  an  inch  high,  and 
this  is  the  altitude  of  humanity.  Weight  is  out  of 
the  question  ;  estimates  all  run  to  height.  Ambition 
is  but  another  name  for  altitude,  and  success  a  syno- 
nyme  for  '  getting  higher.'  The  boy  is  a  man  ;  the 


162  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

man  climbs  rostrums  to  get  higher ;  thrones,  to 
get  higher ;  mountains,  to  get  higher.  Monuments 
go  up  ;  shouts  go  up  ;  favorites  go  up  to  court ;  con 
querors  go  up  to  glory.  Height,  height,  every  where 
height.  Six  feet  of  glory  ;  six  feet  two,  of  honor  and 
dignity.  Q,ueer  again — don't  you  think  so  ? 

By  and  by — melancholy  trio — the  form  is  bent  a 
little,  and  there  goes  an  inch  or  two  from  stature. 
He  or  she  is  looking  at  something  in  the  dust.  What 
can  it  be  ?  Surely  it  is  not  a  gratoe  they  look  at. 
Eyes  grow  dim,  and  they  bend  lower  to  see.  To  see  ? 
What  can  there  be  to  be  seen,  we  wonder  ? 

By  and  by,  they  weary,  and  throw  themselves  along 
the  bosom  of  the  dusky  mother  of  us  all.  They 
sleep — sleep,  but  they  do  not  dream!  Where  are 
your  altitude  now,  your  mountains,  monuments,  and 
thrones  ?  Men  take  up  the  sleeper,  carefully,  slowly, 
as  it  were  a  treasure.  And  so  it  is — a  treasure  of 
dust.  The  old  estimate  is  resumed ;  weight  has  come 
again ;  'tis  '  a  dead  weight' — nothing  more. 

And  this  would  be  queer,  too,  if  only  it  were  not 
sad. 

But  they  are  talking  again.  'She  had  three 
names,  hadn't  she  ?'  '  Indeed,  but  I  can  remember 
but  two.' 


QUEER   ESTIMATES.  163 

Remember  but  two,  can  they  ?  Names  of  what  ? 
Why,  of  all  that  weight  and  height  of  fame  and 
love,  and  hope  and  fear,  and  thought  and  passion. 

And  two  words — two  breaths  of  air — two  mur 
murs,  are  all  that  is  left  of  what  once  was  a  man,  a 
woman. 

Years  elapse,  and  Age  is  talking  again :  '  There 
was — was — I  cannot  remember  the  name  now — 
well,  well,  it's  what  we  are  all  coming  to,'  and  the 
old  man  sighs  sadly. 

The  last  syllable  of  all,  has  died  on  the  lip,  is 
erased  from  memory,  ripples  not  the  still  and  listen 
ing  air — is  lost ;  not  a  murmur  of  it  lingers  in  '  the 
fearful  hollow '  of  a  human  ear  !  '  Pah  !  how  the 
dust  flies  !'  Dust,  do  you  say  ?  Listen,  and  we  will 
whisper  just  a  word  :  that  dust  was  warm  once, 
loved  once,  beauty  once. 

"  Imperious  Cffisar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away : 
Oh !  that  the  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  to  expel  the  winter's  flaw !" 

What  more  significant  comment  upon  the  vanity 
of  royalty  could  be  given,  than  Hamlet's  next  words  ? 
There  is  a  meaning  in  them  beyond  speech  : 

'  But  soft !  but  soft !  aside  :  Here  comes  the  KINO.' 
That  dust  again !  There  goes  a  King,  may  be. 


164  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 


$  Wait*  fram  t\t  lot. 

WALKING  '  up  the  road '  by  the  woods,  the  other 
evening,  the  music  of  the  choir  in  the  old  School- 
house,  came  floating  out  into  the  darkness  around  me, 
and  they  were  all  new  tunes  and  strange  tunes,  but 
one.  And  that  one  ! — it  was  not  sung  as  I  have 
heard  it,  but  it  awakened  a  train  of  long-buried 
memories,  that  rose  to  me  even  as  they  were,  ere  the 
cemetery  of  the  soul  had  a  tomb  in  it. 

It  was  sweet  old  Corinth  they  were  singing — strains 
I  have  seldom  heard,  since  the  rose-color  of  life  was 
blanched ;  and  I  was,  in  a  moment,  back  again  to 
the  old  village  church,  and  it  was  a  summer  after 
noon,  and  the  yellow  sunbeams  were  streaming 
through  the  west  windows,  and  the  silver  hair  of  the 
old  Deacon  who  sat  near  the  pulpit,  was  turned  to 
gold  in  its  light,  and  the  minister,  who,  we  used  to 
think,  could  never  die,  so  good  was  he,  had  concluded 
'  application'  and  '  exhortation,'  and  the  village  choir 
were  singing  the  last  hymn,  and  the  tune  was 
CORINTH. 


A   VOICE    FROM    THE    PAST.  165 

It  is  years — we  dare  not  think  how  many — since 
then,  and  '  the  prayers  of  David  the  son  of  Jesse, 
are  ended,'  and  the  choir  is  scattered  and  gone.  The 
girl  with  blue  eyes  that  sang  alto,  and  the  girl  with 
black  eyes  that  sang  air ;  the  eyes  of  the  one,  were 
like  a  clear  June  Heaven  at  night,  and  those  of  the 
other,  like  the  same  Heaven  at  noon.  They  both 
became  wives,  and  both  mothers,  and  they  both  died. 
Who  shall  say  they  are  not  singing  Corinth  still, 
where  Sabbaths  never  wane,  and  congregations  never 
break  up  ?  There  they  sat,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath, 
by  the  square  column  at  the  right  of  the  '  leader,' 
and  to  our  young  eyes,  they  were  passing  beautiful, 
and  to  our  young  ears,  their  tones  were  the  very  '  soul 
of  music.'  That  column  bears  still,  their  pencilled 
names  as  they  wrote  them  in  those  days  in  life's  June, 
183-,  ere  dreams  of  change  had  o'ercome  their  spirits 
like  a  summer  cloud. 

Alas !  that  with  the  old  Singers,  most  of  the  sweet 
old  tunes  have  died  upon  the  air  ;  but  they  linger  in 
memory,  and  they  shall  yet  be  sung  again,  in  the 
sweet  re-union  of  song  that  shall  take  place  by  and 
by,  in  a  hall  whose  columns  are  beams  of  morning 
light,  whose  ceiling  is  pure  pearl,  whose  floors  are  all 
gold,  and  where  hair  never  turns  silvery,  and  hearts 


166  JANUARY  AND  JUNE. 

never  grow  old.  Then  she  that  sang  alto,  and  she 
that  sang  air,  will  be  in  their  places  once  more,  for 
what  could  the  choir  do  without  them  ? 


W,  %  i  t  i  n  g* 

PATIENT  reader,  did  you  ever  wait  ?  Are  you  any 
way  related  to  the  patriarch  of  Uz,  and  did  you  wait, 
meekly,  quietly,  resignedly  ?  Longfellow  hit  it  once, 
'  palpably,'  when  he  enjoined  upon  all  his  readers, 

'  Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait' 

Laboring  and  waiting  compose  the  great  business  of 
life.  Any  sinner  can  do  the  former,  but  as  for  the 
latter,  it  takes  a  saint. 

"Wait?  We  are  forever  waiting.  Don't  you  re 
member  when  you  were  waiting  to  throw  off  the 
'  rifle-dress,'  for  pantaloons,  and  the  red  stubby  shoes 
for  regular  boots,  just  like  father's,  or  uncle's,  or 
somebody's  ?  '  You  are  a  lady  ?'  Beg  pardon.  Well, 
ladies  never  get  beyond  thirty-five,  and  you  can  re 
member  how  you  waited  till  you  could  wear  yom 
hair  '  done  up  behind,'  with  a  comb,  and  sport — a — 
well,  what  politicians  like  to  make — a  bustle.  And 


WAITING.  167 

don't  you  remember  how  you  waited  for  a  beau  or  a 
belle,  or  to  be  eighteen  or  twenty-one  ?  Every  body 
waits.  School-children  wait  for  '  the  last  day  '  and 
vacation ;  undergraduates  wait  for  commencement 
and  college  honors ;  poets  wait  for  fame,  and  like 
their  funeral  trains,  if  they  have  any,  it  is  posthu 
mous  ;  agriculturists  wait  from  seed-time  till  harvest ; 
politicians  wait  from  campaign  to  campaign  ;  preach 
ers  wait  for  '  the  moving  of  the  waters  ;'  watchers 
wait  for  morning ;  the  weary  wait  for  evening,  and 
the  old  and  friendless  wait  for  dying. 

Sad  are  they  who  have  no  body  to  keep  them  com 
pany.  There  is  a  waiting  Angel,  and  her  name  is 
HOPE,  for  what  is  Hope  but  a  happy  waiting  ?  Reli 
gion  has  made  her  an  arch- angel,  and  christened  her 
Faith.  The  former  looks  into  the  future  of  this 
world,  and  the  latter  looks  into  the  future  of  that. 
Maybe  you  call  this  transcendental,  Germanic  ;  maybe 
you  call  it  nonsense.  Be  it  so  ;  it  is  a  nonsense  that 
will  pass  under  the  guise  of  wisdom  by  and  by,  when 
the  masquerade  of  life  is  ended,  and  '  things  are  what 
they  seem.' 

So,  Hope  and  Faith  together,  are  for  ever  singing  a 
little  song,  whose  burden  is 


168  JANUARY  AND   JUNE. 

*t  brill   all  6e  rtjjfjt   In  tfje  j[8ornin£. 


When  the  bounding  beat  of  the  heart  of  love, 

And  the  springing  step,  grow  slow ; 
"When  the  form  of  a  cloud  in  the  blue  above, 

Lies  dark  on  the  path  below, 
The  song  that  he  sings  is  lost  in  a  sigh, 

And  he  turns  where  a  STAR  is  dawning, 
And  he  thinks,  as  it  gladdens  his  heart  and  his  eye : 

'It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning  ! ' 


When  'the  strong  man  armed,'  in  the  middle-watch, 

From  life's  dim  deck  is  gazing, 
And  strives,  through  the  wreck  of  the  tempest,  to  catch 

A  gleam  of  the  day-beam's  blazing ; 
Amid  the  wild  storm,  there  hard  by  the  helm, 

He  heeds  not  the  dark  ocean  yawning ; 
For  this  song  in  his  soul  not  a  sorrow  can  whelm: 

'  It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning ! ' 


When  the  battle  is  done,  the  harp  unstrung, 

Its  music  trembling — dying ; 
When  his  woes  are  unwept,  and  his  deeds  unsung, 

And  he  longs  in  the  grave  to  be  lying, 
Then  a  VOICE  shall  charm,  as  it  charmed  before 

He  had  wept  or  waited  the  dawning: 
'  They  do  love  there  for  aye — I'll  be  thine  as  of  yore — 

It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning ! ' 


WAITING  169 


Thus  all  through  the  world,  by  ship  and  by  shore ; 

"Where  the  mother  bends  over 
The  cradle,  whose  tenant  '  has  gone  on  before ;' 

Where  the  eyes  of  the  lover 
Look  aloft  for  the  loved;   whatever  the  word, 

A  welcome,  a  wail,  or  a  warning, 
Tins  is  every  where  cherished — this  every  where  heard : 

'  It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning! ' 

Death  itself  is  a  great  waiting  ;  '  there  is  no  more 
work  nor  device  ' — the  laboring,  which  is  the  living, 
is  subtracted,  and  we  have  that  dread,  dumb  and 
dusty  '  remainder,'  they  call  death. 

Some  body,  maybe,  who  wears  a  heart — a  piece  of 
extravagance,  too,  as  the  world  goes — may  analyze 
this  compound  of  living,  and  find  no  love  in  it,  and 
eschew  the  definition,  and  set  me  down  as  no  philoso 
pher.  Laboring  is  loving,  and  loving  is  a  good,  strong, 
healthful  action  of  the  heart  ;  something  quick,  but 
not  too  quick  ;  something  warm,  but  not  feverish. 

Work,  and  the  heart  beats  ;  the  harder  you  work, 
the  faster  it  plays,  and  one  is  just  in  the  condition  to 
love,  when  he  is  just  in  the  condition  to  labor.  Some 
people  are  too  lazy  to  love,  and  so  they  wait  till  they 

die,  and  keep  waiting,  Heaven  knows  how  long  ! 

8 


170  JANUARY   AND   JUKE. 


far 


'  No  ROOM  FOR  Two  !  '  was  the  exclamation  of 
some  insider,  the  other  morning,  as  two  persons  were 
endeavoring  to  demonstrate  that  the  capacity  of  an 
omnibus  has  no  such  property  as  impenetrability,  by 
crowding  into  a  carriage  already  having  its  prescribed 
six  on  a  side.  And  so  they  retreated  ;  bang,  went 
the  door,  crack,  went  the  whip,  and  away  rolled  the 
omnibus,  toward  La  Porte,  leaving  the  twain  to  go, 
emphatically,  '  by  private  conveyance.' 

No  room  for  two  !  An  omnibus,  '  all  full  inside,' 
is  not  the  only  place  in  the  world  where  there  is  no 
room  for  two. 

Ambition  that,  through  '  seas  incarnadine,'  has 
attained  power,  can  '  bear  no  brother  near  the  throne,' 
for  there's  no  room  for  two. 

Avarice,  that  has  grown  lean  and  hungry,  as  he 
ministered  to  the  golden  god  he  has  set  up  and  wor 
shipped,  has  no  place  in  his  soul  for  sympathy  ;  with 
him,  there  is  no  room  for  two. 

Purpose,  whose  clear  and  single  eyes  descry  a  signal 
on  the  dim  outline  of  the  swelling  future,  and  who 


NO  ROOM  roa  TWO.  171 

marches  steadily  on  until  he  reaches  it,  says,  to  all 
that  can  divert,  distract,  delay,  '  there  is  no  room  for 
two.' 

Youthful  Love,  as  she  sets  up  a  new  presence  in 
the  shrine  of  her  heart,  '  made  in  the  image  of  a 
creature  of  dust,  and  surrounds  it  with  all  the  offer 
ings  of  a  spirit  affluent  in  generous  affections,  whispers 
to  herself,  as  she  does  so,  '  there's  no  room  for  two.' 

He  who  has  waited  and  wept  during  lingering  and 
wearisome  years,  for  the  ripening  of  some  blessing, 
that  shall  crown  his  life  with  a  golden  harvest  at  last, 
takes  up  the  word,  when  that  blessing  comes,  and 
exclaims,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart, '  there's  no  room 
for  two ! ' 

And  when  we  all — as  all  must — shall,  one  by  one, 
lie  down,  we  trust  '  to  pleasant  dreams,'  still  comes 
that  lonely  voice,  as  eloquent  as  ever, '  there's  no  room 
for  two !' 

As  the  song  has  it,  in  its  sweet  refrain, 

'  There's  nae  room  for  twa,  ye  ken, 

There's  nae  room  for  twa ; 
The  narrow  bed  where  all  maun  lie, 
Has  nae  room  for  twa. 

'  There's  nae  room  for  twa,  ye  ken, 

There's  nae  room  for  twa; 
The  heart  that's  gie'n  to  God  and  Heaven, 
Has  nriH  room  for  twa.' 


172  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 


Grammar   0f 


'  Long  time  ago,'  some  day  this  month  —  you  and  I 
should  remember  exactly  —  a  man  was  born,  whose 
name  has  been  to  the  juvenile  world  '  a  household 
word  ;'  sometimes  a  word  of  terror,  but  now,  as  I 
remember  it,  a  word  to  conjure  with  ;  to  wave  up 
scenes  and  forms  long  faded  and  crumbled.  LINDLEY 
MURRAY  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ?  And  do  you 
not  remember  his  little  book,  that  like  another  '  little 
book,'  was  '  bitter,'  and  never  sweet  at  all  ?  And 
don't  you  recollect  how  firmly  it  was  bound,  old  Iron 
sides  that  it  was,  and  what  was  on  the  fly-leaf  —  John, 
or  James,  or  David  Somebody,  '  his  book,'  and  that 
Lochiel-like  couplet  : 

'  Steal  cot  this  book,  my  honest  friend, 
For  fear  the  gallows  shall  be  your  end.' 

And  who  printed  it,  '  H.  &  E.  Phinney,'  and  the  year, 
1800  and  something? 

Shut  your  eyes  now,  and  you  can  see  every  page  of 
that  old  Grammar  ;  just  where  the  noun  began,  and 
the  '  verb  to  be,'  and  Syntax,  with  its  terrible  code  of 
twenty-two,  exactly  twenty-two  rules. 


THE    GRAMMAR    OF    LIFE.  173 

And  how  like  quarter  horses,  we  plunged  through 
the  moods  and  tenses  of  the  verb  '  Love  ! '  Who  has 
forgotten,  or  who  ever  can  forget,  how  it  went,  and  we 
went  ?  '  I  love,  loved,  have  loved,  had  loved,  shall 
or  will  love,  shall  have  loved.'  On  we  darted, 
through  the  cans,  and  the  coulds,  and  the  mights,  of 
the  potential,  and  the  mysterious  contingencies  of  the 
subjunctive,  till  we  rounded  to  on  the  trio  of  parti 
ciples  that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this  marvellous 
cavalcade  of  deeds,  probable  and  possible,  present, 
past  and  future,  in  the  great  art  and  action  of  loving. 

And  then,  when  you  came  to  prepositions,  how  they 
puzzled  you — how  they  puzzled  us  all !  Don't  you 
remember  the  definition?  Right  hand  page,  four 
lines  from  the  top,  just  before  conjunctions,  on  the 
threshold  of  Syntax  ? 

Thus  it  ran  :  '  Prepositions  are  words  used  to  con 
nect  words,  and  show  the  relation  between  them  ;'  or, 
to  give  little  Joe  Miller's,  or  some  other  little  fellow's 
version,  '  Pep'sition  word  used  c'nect  words  show  'la- 
tion  'tween  'em.'  Showed  '  relation '  did  they  ?  And 
what  relation?  Blood  relation  or  relation  by  mar 
riage  ?  And  so  we  puzzled  and  pondered,  and  passed 
it  over,  and  learned  '  the  list,'  that  went  like  a  flock 
of  sheep  over  a  wall,  '  of,  to,  for,  by,  with,  in.' 


174  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

And  who  has  forgotten  those  queer  contrivances  of 
conjunctions,  that  connected  and  didn't  connect ;  and 
what  a  Grod-cend  the  interjection  was,  in  the  midst 
of  the  fog,  with  its  oh  !  ah !  and  alas  !  Often  had 
we  employed  it ;  we  understood,  felt,  appreciated  it. 

Then  the  wonderful  process  they  called  '  Parsing ' — 
wonder  if  they  do  it  yet ;  when  we  used  to  take  coup 
lets  from  the  prince  of  English  rhyme,  and,  a  row  of 
little  cannibals  that  we  were,  there  we  stood,  beneath 
the  unwinking  optics  of  our  teacher,  and  "  transposed," 
alias  mutilated,  "  paraphrased,"  alias  butchered,  and 
every  thing  but  devoured,  his  immortal  lines  ! 

Do  you  not  recollect  how  we  disposed  of 

"  In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear — whatever  is,  is  right  ?" 

After  much  science  and  little  sense,  the  light  used 
to  burst  upon  our  bedazzled  intellects,  about  once  a 
winter,  that  Pope  meant  to  say,  and  did  say,  "  what 
ever  is  right,  is  right !  "  Do  they  dream  in  the  grave  ? 
Does  the  bard  sleep  peaceful  yet  ? 

And  where's  the  boy  that  sat  next,  in  the  grammar 
class  ?  And  the  bright-eyed  girl,  that  used  to  whis 
per  the  answer  so  softly  to  us,  and  save  our  juvenile 
palms  many  an  acquaintance  with  the  oaken  ferule — 
where  is  she  ?  Does  she  whisper  hope  and  happiness 


THE    GRAMMAR    OF    LIFE.  175 

to  any  body  still  ?  Are  her  eyes  as  bright,  and  her 
steps  as  light  as  of  old  ?  Or  has  Death,  that  great 
bailiff  closed  her  eyes  and  set  a  seal  upon  her  lips  ? 
Who  knows  ?  Who  can  tell  ? 

And  the  old  schoolmaster,  gray  "  as  long  ago  as 
we  can  remember" — gray  before  that — does  he  teach 
Grammar  still  ?  Is  his  step  as  firm,  and  his  eye  as 
steel-like  gray  as  it  was  wont  to  be  then  ? 

And  the  ancient  schoolma'am,  old  Miss  E.,  who 
lived  in  the  yellow  house  next  to  the  village  green, 
and  taught  us  spelling  and  etymology ;  she  too  is  con 
jured  up  by  the  spell  of  "  Old  Murray,"  and  we  see 
her  looking  over  those  spectacles,  as  she  used  to  do 
when  she  meant  to  be  "  awful."  One  day  she  "  put 
out "  celibacy,  an,d  though  'twas  the  name  of  her 
lonely  state — poor  old  lady  ! — that  circumstance  didn't 
let  her  into  the  pronunciation,  and  "  sillybossy,"  for  so 
she  gave  it,  threw  the  class  into  convulsions.  Great 
was  her  wrath  on  that  memorable  day.  Two  of  us 
were  imprisoned  beneath  the  stairs  ;  two  were  sen 
tenced  to  stand  upon  one  foot,  one  held  in  extended 
hand,  Walker's  Dictionary — decidedly  a  great  work, 
was  that  dictionary  ;  and  a  lad  who  was  desperately 
'  afraid  of  the  girls,'  was  set  between  a  bouncing 
brace  of  them. 


176  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

But  it  wouldn't  do.  "  Sillybossy  "  would  not  down, 
and  smothered  sounds,  chokings,  outright  laughter, 
broke  forth  from  every  corner,  around  the  perplexed 
and  angry  schoolma'am. 

Years  have  fled ;  the  tenant  of  the  old  yellow 
house  is  doubtless  borne  away,  and  "  the  places  that 
once  knew  her,  shall  know  her  no  more  for  ever." 

So  much  for  '  old  Murray '  and  the  memories  it  has 
awakened  ;  and  beautified  by  time,  I  can  almost  wish 
myself  back  again,  in  the  midst  of  the  days  when 
Murray  was  a  terror,  and  his  pages  a  mystery 

But  why  didn't  '  the  master '  hint,  sometime,  that 
we  should  never  be  done  with  the  tenses  until  we 
were  done  with  time  ?  That  the  world  is  full  of 
them  ?  That  the  world  is  made  of  them  ?  That, 
for  the  sturdy,  iron  present  tense,  full  of  facts  and 
figures,  knocks  and  knowledge,  we  must  look  among 
the  men  in  middle-life — the  diggers  and  workers  of 
the  world  ;  the  men  who,  of  all  others,  have  disco 
vered,  for  the  very  first  time,  at  forty  or  forty-five, 
that  the  present  tense  is  noiv  ;  that  in  the  shop,  the 
store,  the  warehouse,  the  field — on  docks  and  decks, 
the  real,  living  present,  reigns  supreme  ?  That,  for 
the  bright,  golden,  joyous  future — full  of  the  tones  of 
silver  bells  and  beating  hearts,  merry  tongues  and 


THE   GRAMMAR    OF    LIFE.  177 

merry  feet,  you  must  look  in  our  swarming  schools, 
peep  beneath  little  soft  blankets,  in  cradles  at  fire 
sides,  or  examine  small  bundles  of  white  dimity  ? 
That  we  should  find  the  future  astride  of  a  rocking- 
horse  ;  lullabying  a  wax  baby  ;  flying  kites,  trundling 
hoops,  or  blowing  penny- whistles  ?  Why  didn't  he 
tell  us — or  did  he  leave  that  for  the  poets  ? — that  they 
who  wear  the  silver  livery  of  Time;  that  linger 
tremblingly  amid  the  din  and  jar  of  life ;  whose 
voices,  like  a  failing  fountain,  are  not  musical  as  of 
old ;  that  they  are  the  melancholy  past  ? 

Why  didn't  he  teach  us— or  did  he  leave  that  for 
the  preachers? — that  "  cold  obstruction"  claims  all 
times  for  its  own  :  glowing  action,  the  present ;  hope, 
the  future  ;  and  memory,  the  past  ? 

"  One  pluperfect !  "  Ah !  we  have  had  that  to 
wnlearn  since.  "  One  future  !  "  Who  does  not  thank 
God,  that,  in  this  world  of  ours,  there  are  a  myriad  ? 

"  I  shall  be,"  and  "  I  might  have  been  !  "  The 
former  the  music  of  youth,  sweet  as  the  sound  of 
silver  bells  ;  fresh  as 

"  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn ;" 

the  latter,  the  plaint  of  age,  the  dirge  of  hope,  the 

inscription  for  a  tomb.     The  one  trembles  upon  thin, 

8* 


178  JANUARY    AND    JUXE. 

pale  lips,  parched  with  "  life's  fitful  fever  ;"  the  other 
swells  from  strong,  young  hearts,  to  lips  rounded  and 
dewy,  with  the  sweetness  of  hope  and  the  fulness  of 
strength.  The  one  is  timed  by  a  heart  that  flutters, 
intermits,  flutters  and  wears  out ;  while  that  of  the 
other,  beats  right  on,  in  the  bold,  stern  march  of  life. 

"  I  shall  be,"  and  "  I  might  have  been  !"  What 
toil  and  trouble,  time  and  tears,  are  recorded  in  those 
little  words — the  very  stenography  of  life.  How  like 
a  bugle-call  is  that  "  I  shall  be,"  from  a  young  soul, 
strong  in  prophecy !  "I  shall  be — great,  honored, 
affluent,  good." 

"  I  shall  be,"  whispers  the  glad  girl  to  herself,  as 
with  one  foot  upon  the  threshold  of  womanhood,  she 
catches  the  breath  from  the  summer-fields  of  life,  "  I 
shall  be — loved  by  and  by  !"  That  is  her  aspiration  ; 
for  to  be  loved  is  to  be  happy, 

"  I  shall  be,"  says  the  struggling  boy,  "  I  shall  be 
the  possessor  of  a  little  home  of  my  own,  and  a  little 
wife,  some  day,  and  the  home  shall  be  '  ours,'  and 

the  wife  shall  be  mine,  and  then — and  then " 

Who  can  fill  out  those  '  thens  ?'  Who,  but  the  painter 
that  has  dipped  his  pen  in  sunset  ?  Who,  but  the  poet 
whose  lips  have  been  touched  with  a  coal  fresh  from 
the  altar  of  inspiration  ? 


THE    GRAMMAR    OF    LIFE.  179 

"  I  shall  be — victorious  yet,"  murmurs  the  man  in 
the  middle  watch,  who  had  been  battling  with  foes 
till  night  fell,  and  is  praying,  like  the  Greek,  for  dawn 
again,  that '  he  may  see  to  fight.' 

"  I  shall  be,"  faintly  breathes  the  languishing  upon 
her  couch  of  pain — "  I  shall  be  better  to-morrow,  or 
to-morrow ;"  and  she  lives  on,  because  she  hopes  on, 
and  she  grows  strong  with  the  "  shall  be  "  she  has 
uttered. 

And  the  strong  man  armed,  who  has  '  fought  the 
good  fight,'  and  has  '  kept  the  faith,'  when  they  that 
sustained  his  extended  hands  through  the  battle  are 
departing,  and  no  Joshua  to  bid  the  declining  sun 
'stand  still,'  as  he  looks  beyond  the  rugged  hills  of 
the  world,  and  sees  a  window  opened  in  heaven,  and 
a  wounded  hand  put  forth  in  welcome,  lays  aside  the 
armor  he  has  worn  so  long  and  well,  and  going  down 
into  the  dark  river,  he  utters,  with  a  hope  glorified  to 
faith,  '  I  shall  be  over  the  Jordan  to-morrow  !' 

Before  the  memory  has  a  tomb  in  it — before  it  be 
comes  the  cemetery,  the  "Greenwood"  of  the  soul — 
"  I  shall  be  "  is  beautiful  as  an  old  ballad.  When 
graves  are  digged  therein,  and  willows  are  planted, 
and  hopes  are  buried,  and  no  light  breaks  out  of  the 


180  JANUARY    AND   JUNE; 

cloud,  then  "  1  shall  be  "  is  as  grand  as  an  old  paean- 
When 

The  battle  is  done,  the  harp  unstrung, 
Its  music  trembling,  dying, 

Then  "  I  shall  be  "  is  as  sublime  as  an  old  prophecy  ! 

But  there  is  another  tense  in  this  Grammar  of  Life 
it  were  well  to  remember ;  the  sparkling  moment 
that  dances  out  from  the  ripening  hours,  like  golden 
grain,  beneath  the  flails  of  Time,  as  we  write,  and 
even  as  we  write,  is  gathered  into  the  great  garner  of 
the  Past. 

There  is  an  injunction  it  were  well  to  remember  : 

'  Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ; 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead; 
Act,  act  in  the  living  Present — 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead! ' 


g  0  n't  1 0  r  g  *  t , 

OLD  LETTERS  !  Don't  you  love,  sometimes,  to 
look  over  old  letters  ?  Some  of  them  are  dim  with 
years,  and  some  are  dim  with  tears. 

Here  is  one  now,  the  burden  of  which  is,  '  Don't 
forget ;'  the  device  on  the  seal  is,  '  don't  forget,'  and 


DON'T  FORGET.  181 

the  writer  thereof  went,  winters  ago,  to  "the  narrow 
beds  of  peace."  But  surely,  she  needn't  have  writ 
ten  it,  for  we  can't  forget  if  we  would. 

Don't  forget !  They  are  common  words  ;  we  hear 
them,  perhaps  use  them,  every  day,  and  yet  how 
needless,  we  may  almost  say,  how  meaningless,  they 
are.  What  is  it  we  forget  ?  That  which  was  fore'- 
gotten,  and  set  down  in  the  tablets  of  memory,  long 
ago ;  set  down,  we  may  not  remember  where,  we 
may  not  remember  when,  but  it  is  there  still.  Re 
move  with  the  palm  of  Time,  the  inscriptions  upon 
marble— eat  out  with  its  '  corroding  tooth,'  the  let 
tering  upon  brass,  but  that  thing  fore'gotten  remains 
unobliterated.  Some  breath  may  whirl  back  the 
leaves  of  memory  to  its  page — in  some  hour,  an  epi 
tome  of  its  contents  may  be  unrolled  before  us. 
Every  thought  consigned  to  memory  is  immortal — its 
existence  runs  parallel  with  the  mind  that  conceived, 
and  the  heart  that  cradled  it.  '  Don't  forget !'  We 
cannot  forget.  Earth  is  full  of  strains  Lethean  of 
man's  invention,  but  the  past  is  with  him  still. 

New  days,  new  hopes,  new  loves  arise  ;  but  '  plea 
sant  yet  mournful  to  the  soul  is  the  memory  of  joys 
that  are  past.'  Our  eyes  are  dazzled  with  the  clear 
of  the  present,  but  dimmed  with  the  cloud  of  the 


182  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

past.  Ride  as  we  will,  on  the  swiftest  billow  of  to 
morrow,  we  are  never  out  of  sight  of  yesterday. 
There  it  shines  still,  with  a  tearful,  gentle  light,  like 
some  pale  Pleiad  through  the  rack  of  the  storm. 
"  Don't  forget !"  Ah  !  the  science  that  could  teach 
men  to  forget,  would  be  more  welcome  than  all  the 
trickery  of  Mnemonics. 

When  the  heart  beats  sadder,  and  the  tide  of  life 
runs  slower,  how  the  Yesterdays  come  drifting  down 
to  waiting  Age — waiting  for  him  who  enters  hall  and 
hovel,  unbidden  and  unstayed.  "  Don't  forget  !" 
Alas  !  who  does  not  remember  ? 

Even  Ocean  itself,  busy  as  it  is,  in  laving  from  its 
shores,  all  records  of  the  past,  is  the  great  memory  of 
the  natural  world.  Clarence'  dream  was  no  fiction, 
and  its  treasures  glitter,  and  whiten,  and  sway  amid 
the  groves  of  red  coral.  But  even  the  Sea  is  not 
oblivious,  for  "  the  Sea  shall  give  up  its  dead." 


BLESSED   ALMANACS.  183 


WHILE  I  am  writing  these  words,  a  pair  of  "bright 
particular"  eyes,  just  on  a  level  with  the  table,  are 
following  my  pen  in  its  eccentric  movements  over  the 
page.  Don't  you  and  I  wish  our  eyes  were  just  on  a 
level  with  the  tables  again  !  The  owner  of  the  eyes 
aforesaid,  is  a  Lilliputian,  not  nearer  to  Heaven,  as 
Hamlet  had  it,  even  "  by  the  altitude  of  a  copine," 
than  PORT,  and  he  lacks  a  sheet  of  paper  of  three  feet. 
And  speaking  of  eyes,  where  can  you  find  a  brighter 
pair  of  interrogation-points,  than  the  eyes  of  a  child  ? 
Seeing  every  thing,  and  turning  every  thing  into  a 
query,  that  they  see  ? 

Subject  yourself  for  a  half  hour  to  one  of  these 
youthful  inquisitors,  and  you  are  more  of  a  philoso 
pher  than  I  take  you  to  be,  if  he  doesn't  pose  you,  in 
less  than  half  the  time. 

But  small  as  he  is,  his  ambition,  like  a  vine  in  a 
garden,  has  run  all  over  the  month  of  December,  and 
leaved  and  flowered  at  a  tropical  rate,  some  where 
near  the  25th.  ;  How  many  days  is  it  to  Christ 
mas  ?'  '  How  many  Saturdays  is  it  ?'  There  is  no 


184  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

school  on  Saturdays,  and  the  little  rascal  keeps  his 
calendar  by  play-days !  Well,  let  him,  for  few 
enough  of  them  he'll  find  by  and  by,  unless  he  lives 
on  into  the  Millennium.  '  And  will  Santa  Glaus 
come  ? — and  how  can  he  come  down  the  chimney 
and  the  stove-pipe  ? — and  does  he  come  Christmas  or 
New  Year's  ?'  There's  that  vine  of  his,  a  week 
longer  than  it  was,  a  minute  ago. 

'  Oh !  have  him  come  Christmas  !  Have  him 
come  Christmas  !'  and  eyes,  and  feet,  and  heart,  for 
that  matter,  all  dance  together.  Have  him  come 
Christmas !  There  spoke  the  child  of  a  larger 
growth.  There  peeped  out  the  man,  through  the 
disguise  of  boyhood,  thus  early  drawing  on  the  future, 
like  a  gay  heir  in  expectancy,  to  make  up  the  deficits 
of  the  present — an  extravagance,  that  has  made 
many  a  man  and  woman  bankrupt  for  the  amount 
of  a  thousand  hopes  sterling,  and  '  the  undivided 
half '  of  a  life  full  of  happiness, 

Men  have  a  weary  train  of  days — days  of  care 
and  toil,  if  not  of  tears  ;  but  children  have,  in  their 
calendar,  but  four  or  five  days  in  a  whole  year — 
Christmas,  New  Year's,  and  Birth-day,  Fourth  of 
July,  and  Thanksgiving — but  they,  like  great  lamps, 


BLESSED   ALMANACS.  185 

light  up  all  the  year,  and  keep  the  little  fellows  per 
ennial  candidates  for  hope. 

How  much  happiness  is  purchased  for  how  little  in 
the  Holidays  !  And  it  is  easily  calculated  that  if 
eighteen  pence  will  render  a  boy  just  turned  of  six, 
supremely  happy,  two-and-six  pence  will  make  a  lad 
of  nine,  a  prince. 

Who  wouldn't  invest  in  such  property  ! 

But  those  eyes ;  there  they  are  yot,  looking  over 
the  table's  edge,  and  I  cannot  help  dreading  the 
time  when  they  will  look  down  upon  it,  and  one  can 
see  shadows  in  them,  and  the  coming  of  a  real  tear 
in  them — for  children  seldom  weep — and  a  heavy 
light  in  them,  and  dimness  and  death  in  them. 

True,  there  are  shadows  there  now,  but  they  are 

like  those 

"  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer-day  made, 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover." 

A  cloud !  Life  itself  is  a  morning  cloud,  and 
whether  with  shadows  or  glory,  glides  swiftly  and 
silently  by. 


186  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 


af 


SOME  BODY,  curious  in  minerals,  has  sent  me  a 
piece  of  Lead  Ore,  as  bright  in  coloring  and  regular 
in  form,  as  if  it  had  been  '  made  by  hand,'  and  there 
lies  the  little  cube  on  the  table,  thia  minute. 

I  am  informed  it  is  some  eighty-five  per  cent,  pure 
lead,  and  it  is  very  likely. 

Lead  is  gray,  sometimes  "  silver  gray,"  it  is  dull,  it 
has  no  music  in  it,  it  cannot  be  shaped  into  swords, 
nor  yet  into  ploughshares,  and  yet  it  is  not  without 
its  poetry. 

True,  we  cannot  make  blades  or  bells  of  it,  but 
we  can  make  balls.  Who  would  suppose  now,  look 
ing  at  that  dull  lump  of  lead,  that  it  ever  '  took  to 
itself  wings,'  like  gold,  its  better,  and  flew  away?  I 
said  it  had  no  music  in  it,  but  I  was  too  fast  ;  I  re 
tract,  for  there  is  a  little  song  in  that  stupid  block, 
that  has  charmed  princely  ears  before  now.  Was  it 
Charles  the  Xllth,  or  Frederick  the  Great,  that 
thought  the  singing  of  bullets,  the  sweetest  of  sing 
ing  ?  Sing  ?  Maybe  you  do  not  think  lead  can  sing  ? 
But  moulded  into  bullets,  and  flying  like  hail  upon 


THE    WONDERS    OF    "GALENA."  187 

the  field  of  battle,  you  shall  hear  its  song,  as  it  hums 
by  like  a  harmless  bird.  Often  and  often  has  it  proved 
a  knell  to  strong,  tall  warriors ;  often  and  often  has 
it  made  widows  and  orphans,  and  done  what  preach 
ers  could  not  do — brought  tears  into  dry  eyes.  Ah  ! 
there  is  a  wonderful  eloquence,  as  well  as  a  wonder 
ful  song,  in  the  steel-gray  lead.  Sometimes  it  sounds 
a  little  like  a  sigh,  and  it  is  not  to  be  marvelled  at, 
considering  the  errand  it  so  often  goes  on. 

But  there  is  more  about  lead  than  has  been  told 
yet.  Look  at  it  now,  so  cloddish,  so  senseless.  It 
has  no  endurance  ;  place  it  in  the  fire,  and  it  runs 
away  ;  it  cannot  resist  heat.  Strike  it  with  a  ham 
mer,  but  it  gives  out  no  ringing  cry  ;  it  is  dumb. 

And  yet,  senseless  as  it  is,  they  have  made  a  nerve 
of  it,  and  hundreds  of  lives  and  thousands  of  hopes 
depend  upon  its  doing  its  office. 

Mists  are  over  the  water  and  clouds  are  over  the 
sky,  and  the  lights  are  out  on  the  shore — the  lee 
shore — and  the  vessel  is  bewildered,  if  not  lost. 
They  must  move — they  keep  moving.  Shall  they 
go  upon  the  rocks  ?  Shall  they  drive  upon  the  shore, 
a  broken  wreck  ?  Heaven  has  no  eyes  for  them,  earth 
no  eyes,  they  no  eyes,  and  so  they  must/ecZ  their  way 
into  port. 


188  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

Down  goes  the  lead:  "five  fathoms!"  "Six 
fathoms  !"  "  Seven  fathoms  !"  "All  right !" 

Take  care  !  Tis  shoal  again  !  Heave  the  lead  ! — 
keep  heaving.  There  !  move  on  steadily.  Deeper, 
deeper,  grows  the  water.  They  have  made  the  har 
bor.  They  are  safe  !  They  felt  their  way  through 
the  waves,  through  the  night,  through  the  storm  ; 
and  the  wonderful  nerve  was  a  line  with  a  lump 
of  Lead. 


DOWN  goes  the  mercury  to  the  zero  of  Celius  and 
Reaumur.  Down  it  goes  again,  to  the  0  of  Fahren 
heit.  The  frost  is  creeping,  creeping  over  the  lower 
panes,  one  after  another.  Now  it  finishes  a  feather  ; 
now  it  completes  a  plume  ;  now  it  tries  its  hand  at  a 
specimen  of  silver-graining.  Up,  up  it  goes,  pane 
after  pane,  clouds,  and  feathers,  and  grains.  Here  a 
joint,  there  a  nail  cracks  like  a  craft  in  a  racking 
storm ;  but  all  is  calm  and  cold  as  death.  Clink  ! 
goes  a  forgotten  glass  in  the  pantry.  The  door-latch 


THE    OLD-FASHIONED    FIRE.  189 

is  plated  ;    half-hidden  nail-heads,  here  and  there  in 
the  corners,  are  '  silvered  o'er  with ' — frost. 

But  what  cared  we  for  that,  as  we  sat  by  the  old- 
fashioned  fire  ?  Back-stick,  fore-stick,  top-stick,  and 
superstructure,  all  in  their  places.  The  coals  are 
turned  out  from  their  glowing  bed  between  the  senti 
nel  andirons — the  old-time  irons,  with  huge  rings  in 
the  top.  One  of  them  has  rested,  for  many  a  day,  on 
a  broken  brick,  but  what  of  that  ?  Many  a  beautiful 
tree,  nay,  a  whole  grove,  maybe,  has  turned  to  glory 
and  to  ashes  thereon,  and  will  again,  winters  and 
winters  to  come. 

A  handful  of  '  kindlings '  is  placed  beneath  this 
future  temple  of  flame ;  here  and  there  a  chip,  a 
splinter,  a  dry  twig,  is  skilfully  chinked  into  the  inter 
stices  of  the  structure  ;  a  wave  or  two  of  the  house 
wife's  wand  of  power,  and  the  hearth  is  "  swept  up." 
The  old  bricks  in  that  altar-place  of  home,  begin  to 
grow  bright,  and  '  as  good  as  new.'  A  little  spiring 
flame,  ambitious  to  be  something  and  some  body, 
creeps  stealthily  up,  and  peeps  through  the  crevi 
ces,  over  this  stick,  under  that  one,  looking  like  a 
little  half-furled  banner  of  crimson.  Then  come 
another  and  another,  and  down  they  go  again,  the 
timid  flames  that  they  are  !  By  and  by  they  grow 


190  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

bolder,  and  half  a  dozen,  altogether,  curl  bravely 
round  the  "  fore-stick,"  and  up  to  the  "  top-stick,"  and 
over  the  whole,  like  the  turrets  of  a  tower  at  sunrise, 
one,  two,  three,  four,  five  spires.  Then  they  blend 
together,  a  cone  of  flame.  Then  they  turn  into  bil 
lows  and  breakers  of  red,  and  roll  up  the  blackened 
wall  of  the  chimney,  above  the  jamb,  above  the  man 
tel-tree,  away  up  the  chimney  they  roar,  while  the  huge 
"  back-stick,"  below  all,  lies  like  a  great  bar,  and 
withstands  the  fiery  surf  that  beats  against  it. 

The  circle  of  chairs  is  enlarged ;  the  '  old  arm 
chair  '  in  the  corner  is  drawn  back ;  one  is  reading, 
another  is  knitting ;  a  third,  a  wee  bit  of  a  boy,  is 
asleep  in  the  corner  ;  they  look  into  each  other's  faces, 
look  beautiful  to  each  other,  and  take  courage  and  are 
content.  There  is  not  a  shadow  in  the  spacious  room ; 
the  frost  creeps  down  from  the  windows ;  the  ice  in 
the  pail,  in  the  corner,  gives  a  half  lurch,  like  the 
miniature  iceberg  it  is,  and  over  it  goes  with  a  splash. 
The  fire  is  gaining  on  it.  The  latch  and  the  nails 
lose  the  bravery  of  their  silvering ;  the  circle  round 
the  fire  grows  larger  and  larger ;  the  old-fashioned 
fire  has  triumphed.  It  is  summer  there,  it  is  light 
there.  The  flowers  of  hope  spring  up  around  it ;  the 
music  of  memory  fills  up  the  pauses  ;  the  clock  ticks 


PRESTO  !    CHANGE  !  191 

softly  from  its  niche  above  the  mantel-piece,  as  if 
fearful  of  letting  them  know  how  last  it  is  stealing 
away  with  the  hours — hours  the  happiest,  alas  !  we 
seldom  live  but  once ;  hours  whose  gentle  light  so 
often  shines  from  out  the  years  of  the  long-gone  morn 
ing,  on  into  the  twilight  of  life's  latest  close. 

Ah  !  necromancers  swept  the  magic  circle  in  times 
of  old ;  but  there  is  none  so  beautiful,  none  with 
charm  so  potent,  as  the  circle  of  light  and  of  love 
around  the  old-fashioned  fire  ! 


THERE  is  a  beautiful  harmony  and  order  in  Nature, 
which  the  more  one  contemplates,  the  more  he  finds 
reason  to  admire. 

Calling  at  the  office  of  a  friend,  a  while  ago,  who 
is  '  curious '  in  matters  of  Mineralogy  and  Geology,  I 
noticed  upon  a  table,  specimens  of  the  wonderful, 
progressive  operations  of  Nature.  There  was  deli 
cate  moss,  some  of  it  yet  wearing  the  color  of  sum 
mer  ;  and  some  had  passed  beyond  "  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf,"  and  had  apparently  been  bleached. 


192  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Near  the  moss,  lay  a  fragment  of  porous  stone, 
resembling  in  color  and  structure,  though  more  com 
pact,  the  whitened  moss.  Next  to  this  was  a  speci 
men  of  firm  rock ;  the  pores  were  filled  up ;  the  whole 
had  indurated,  and  there,  hut  two  removes  from  the 
green  moss,  lay  the  material  of  which  Ambition 
rears  his  monuments,  War  his  defences,  and  Love, 
her  cherished  homes. 

And  near  all  these,  was  placed  a  glass  jar,  which 
contained  the  agent  that  had  wrought  this  wonder — 
pure  cold  Water.  It  is  dumb  now,  but  the  time  has 
been,  it  had  a  voice,  and  a  song  in  it,  as  it  went 
sparkling  down  over  that  moss,  leaping  into  life  and 
sparkling  into  sunlight. 

It  was  indeed  a  beautiful  series,  in  impressiveness 
far  superior  to  the  most  eloquent  description . 

Nature  kindly  disguises  herself,  every  where  around 
us,  and  it  is  the  eye  of  Science  alone  that  detects  in 
the  beauty  of  change,  nothing  but  the  beauty  of 
death. 

Do  my  fair  readers  think — if  I  have  any — while 
their  pencils  glide  so  freely  with  an  '  at  home,'  over 
the  polished  surface  of  the  India  card,  that  the  very 
surface  they  admire,  is  composed  of  the  lunar  shields 
of  little  warriors,  who  have  fought  the  fight  of  life, 


PRESTO  !    CHANGE  !  193 

glittered  like  all  heroes,  their  hour  in  the  sunbeam, 
laid  aside  their  armor  and  died  ? 

Do  they  think  that  little  card,  that  little  parallelo 
gram  of  pearl,  is  the  cemetery  of  thousands — that  the 
beauty  of  that  surface  is  the  beauty  of  death  ? 

And  so  with  the  roses  that  blush  in  our  pathways, 
and  cluster  round  the  graves  of  our  dead.  Could  wo 
but  know  whence  their  elements  were  derived — did 
we  but  think  that  perhaps  the  tint  that  gives  beauty 
to  the  leaf,  once  colored  the  cheek  of  the  loved,  how 
differently  would  we  regard  these  children  of  a  Per 
sian  sun ! 

It  was  one  of  the  beautiful  and  truthful  sayings  of 
an  eminent  naturalist,  that  the  everlasting  hills  and 
the  firm  rocks,  are  but  the  relics  of  former  life. 
They  are  indeed  the  alto-relievo  records  of  things  that 
were.  The  '  rotten  stone,'  composed  of  the  crescent 
shields  of  little  creatures  that  sported  their  day  and 
died  ;  the  white  chalk  rocks,  the  catacombs  of  ani- 
malculse  with  limbs,  and  pulse,  and  armor  for  de 
fence — people,  a  million  of  which,  are  comfortably 
accommodated  within  a  single  cubic  inch. 

En  passant  —  do  ladies  ever  study  GEOLOGY  ? 
There's  a  catalogue — let  us  see  :  "  French,  Philoso 
phy  ;  '  Paley,'  Painting;  Worsted- work  and  'Wor- 
9 


194  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

cester  ;'  '  Day'  and  Dancing  ;  Geometry  and" it 

isn't  there.  And  pray,  why  not  ?  "What  is  Geology, 
after  all,  but  the  History  of  the  World,  written  by 
itself;  Time's  own  biography,  printed  and  paged,  col 
lated  and  bound  by  the  fingers  of  Omnipotence  ? 
And  here  it  is,  written  down  to  the  last  sunset ;  not 
a  leaf  lost,  not  an  illustration  dimmed,  since  the 
'  first  form,'  creation's  recorded  smile,  was  flung  off, 
damp  with  the  night,  and  welcomed  with  a  starry 
song.  Go  where  you  will ;  from  Erie's  '  record 
steep,'  whose  awful  flood  yet  chimes  a  perished  age  ; 
from  the  '  notched  centuries '  in  her  living  rock,  to 
the  wave-worn  pebbles,  those  notes  the  brooks  sing 
by,  and  what  are  they  all,  but  chronometers  to  mark 
time's  viewless  flight ;  to  tell  the  age  of  singing 
streams,  and  when  those  chimes  began  ?  Turn  back 
the  leaves  of  this  ponderous  volume,  ere  human  foot 
prints  soiled  them,  and  yet  how  legible  the  record  ! 
The  leaf  faded  by  that  first  frost  in  Eden,  that  flut 
tered  down  to  earth,  lo  !  here  each  fibre  of  its  frame 
in  lithograph  !  An  insect's  wing  is  there  ;  perhaps  it 
trembled  in  the  evening  beam,  ere  tears  or  blood  had 
stained  the  glorious  page  ;  perhaps  its  fellow  wilted 
in  the  breath  of  that  first  sacrifice.  Here  are  they 
all,  without  erratum,  blank,  or  blot.  And  what  is 


VOICES    OF    THE    DKAD.  195 

Botany,  but  the  beautiful  binding,  the  ornate  title- 
page  of  this  great  volume,  which  few  fair  fingers 
have  ever  assayed  to  open  ? 


THE  world  is  full  of  voices.  Early  morn,  the  deep 
est  noon,  the  stillest  night,  each  has  a  tune  of  its 
own.  Here  now,  it  is  close  upon  midnight.  The 
shouts  of  children  and  the  clatter  of  wheels,  and  the 
clangor  of  bells,  and  the  footfalls  of  the  multitude 
have  ceased.  Men's  hearts  beat  softer  and  steadier  ; 
the  engine  fires  have  died  out  like  fierce  thoughts  in 
iron  breasts  ;  the  World  is  asleep,  and  yet,  how  voice- 
ful  is  the  Night ! 

What  a  time  for  the  dead  to  talk — the  mighty 
dead — they  are  talking.  Oh  !  ye  who  think  their 
utterances  are  confined  to  dim  cathedrals,  and  char- 
nels  dark  and  old !  It  is  not  so :  they  are  in  the 
thronged  city  ;  in  the  stores,  the  offices,  the  shops — 
the  dead  and  their  utterances  are,  if  you  only  had 
time  to  listen,  and  the  world  were  still  enough  to  let 
them  be  heard. 


196  JANUARY   AND    JUNE 

The  Dead  !  aye,  look  solemn,  if  so  it  seems  to  you — 
the  Dead  are  in  your  apartment  to-night,  and  would 
speak — they  have  been  u-aiting  to  speak — if  you 
would  only  heed  them. 

A  few  fragments  of  coal  are  glowing  through  the  bars 
of  the  stove,  and  now  for  the  first  time,  in  twelve  hours, 
they  make  themselves  heard.  And  what  a  voice  the 
coal  has,  to  be  sure.  It  is  something  like  the  murmur 
of  a  distant  multitude — something  like  the  pedal  bass 
of  an  organ,  a  great  way  off — something  like  the  jar 
of  a  railway  tram — something  like  a  wind  wandering 
through  a  wood. 

And  now  I  think  of  it,  there  is  melody  in  the  tone ; 
soft,  mournful ;  the  plaint  of  the  prisoned  coal — its 
murmuring  memories  of  better  times — -the  voice  of 
the  Dead.  And  they  were  better.  Better,  when  that 
poor  fossil  waved  in  a  great  glorious  tree,  all  covered 
with  Spring,  all  tremulous  with  Summer  airs  ;  when 
music  with  wings,  made  nests  in  its  branches  ;  when 
its  leaves  sang  a  song  of  their  own. 

Ah  !  melody  of  another  sort  was  that,  from  the  low 
semi-sullen,  semi-sad  monotone  it  greets  us  with  now, 
through  the  grate. 

Fossil  !  I  called  it  a  fossil,  and  so  it  is :  some 
thing  dug  out  of  the  earth.  We  shall  be  fossils  by 


VOICES    OF    THE    DEAD.  197 

and  by ;  beauty,  a  fossil  ;  youth,  a  fossil,  and  if  not 
fossils,  then  plain-spoken  dust.  And  when  we — that 
'  we '  means  you  and  me — when  we  get  to  that,  shall 
we  give  light  like  the  poor  Anthracite,  or  Bituminous, 
or  Lignite,  or  whatever  it  is  ?  Shall  our  thoughts, 
our  deeds,  our  hopes,  make  a  little  summer  and  a  lit 
tle  day  in  the  midst  of  the  winter  and  the  night  of 
the  world,  like  this  insignificant  coal  ? 

Here's  a  piece  of  Anthracite — -a  stray  piece  by  the 
by— lying  on  the  hearth.  We  know  it  to  be  such, 
from  its  metallic  colors,  and  its  shell-shaped  surfaces. 

Ah!  "it  is  sto?ze-coal  you  speak  of,"  says  the  Eng 
lishman  ;  "I  ken  it 's  blind  coal,"  puts  in  the  son 
of  old  Scotia;  and  "it's  Kilkenny  coal  ye're  afther 
spaking  uv,"  interposes  an  exile  of  Erin.  Yes,  for  it 
has  as  many  titles  as  a  prince,  it  is  all  these.  This 
fragment  came  from  toward  the  head  waters  of  the 
Lehigh  perhaps,  but  for  that  matter,  it  might  have 
come  from  Calton  Hill  in  the  land  of  Lochs,  from 
Walsal  in  white-clifFed  Albion,  from  dusky  Norland, 
from  old  Holland,  from  Andalusia,  from  the  Alps, 
from  "  little  Rhody,"  for  it  is  at  home,  nearly  all  over 
the  world. 

Some  people  are  for  ever  talking  of  the  wonders  of 
the  Imagination  and  the  beauties  of  Poetry.  Here 


198  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

now  is  a  beautiful  wonder,  and  a  wonderful  beauty. 
That  fragment  of  coal — -we  kick  it  about  the  hearth, 
we  handle  it  with  the  shovel,  we  touch  it  with  thumb 
and  fore-finger  as  if  it  were  glowing  hot ;  we  say 
of  a  desperate  case,  '  black  as  coal.'  Wo  personify 
smutted  coarseness  as  a  huge  coal-heaver,  and  yet, 
this  worthless  fragment  lacks  but  about  twenty-eight 
per  cent. — not  as  much  as  many  a  poor  fellow  has 
paid  for  the  loan  of  a  dollar — of  being  all  carbon ;  and 
if  we  could  only  manage  to  get  rid  of  the  alumine  and 
the  silex,  and  the  oxide  of  iron,  why  then,  it  icould 
be,  of  a  truth,  all  carbon,  and  pure  carbon.  "Well, 
and  what  then  ?"  you  say.  Not  much  to  be  sure,  and 
yet  enough  to  sink  the  anthracite,  the  stone,  the  blind, 
and  the  Kilkenny,  and  don  a  new  title ;  enough  to 
make  that  thumb  and  ringer  a  whole  hand,  to 
close  over  it  with  the  clutch  of  a  vice,  all  along 
through  life,  and  away  through  into  death ;  enough 
to  turn  earth  into  a  battle-field,  and  redden  the  turf 
before  sunset ;  enough  to  transform  a  fair-browed, 
open-souled  boy,  into  a  wrinkled,  glowering  old  fiend. 
And  what  is  all  this  about,  you  inquire  ;  what  this 
carbonic  wonder  ?  A  yellowish  or  bluish,  or  reddish 
or  brownish,  eight-sided  crystal  ;  a  thing  strown  along 
from  Bengal  to  Cormorin ;  a  -thing  that  glittered  in 


VOICES    OF    THE    DEAD.  199 

the  hilt  of  the  sword  of  '  the  man  of  destiny  ;  that 
the  Autocrat  of  Russia  waves  in  his  sceptre ;  that 
glows  on  velvet  round  many  a  princely  brow.  It  is — 
but  what's  the  use  of  telling,  when  you  know 
already  ? — it  is  that  thing  they  call  a  DIAMOND — elder 
brother  of  the  coal,  the  swarthy  Anthracite. 

"  Brilliant,"  "  Rose,"  or  "  Table"  Diamonds — by 
whatever  name,  they  call  them — burn  them  in  Oxy 
gen  Gas,  which  is  nothing  but  the  mere  day-breath 
of  flowers,  and  you  have  only  carbonic  acid  gas — an 
element  that  transformed  the  Black-hole  of  Calcutta 
into  the  charnel-house  it  was — an  element  that  you 
cannot  breathe  and  live.  And  where's  your  Diamond  ! 

Return  we  now  to  the  black  brother  of  these  bril 
liants,  the  Anthracite.  Examine  it,  and  you  shall 
find  no  trace  of  the  wood  it  was.  Cunning  Earth 
has  effaced  each  fibre,  and  made  it  a  mineral  treasure, 
and  no  tree  can  claim  its  kindred. 

And  how  long,  think  you,  has  it  been  since  that 
coal  had  the  silken  texture  of  a  leaf,  a  flower,  a 
shrub  ?  How  long  since  childhood  slept  beneath  the 
shade  it  helped  to  make  ?  How  long  since  Beauty 
breathed  its  fragrance  in  a  flower,  and  listened  and 
believed  that  love  was  changeless  ?  And  the  Beauty  and 
the  Lover,  and  the  sentiment  are  fossils,  or  are  dust,  or  are 


200  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

nothing  now,  to  you  or  me.  Here  now  are  two  specimens 
of  Mineral  Coal ;  the  Black,  the  most  common  of  the 
smutty  fraternity,  that  brightens  the  grates  of  all  Eng 
land,  and  envelops  it  in  a  coal-heaver's  "  glory,"  and 
the  Cannel  or  Candle-coal,  with  its  polished  surface, 
and  its  peculiar  odor,  and  the  crackling  it  makes  when 
first  heated.  Cannel  Coal  when  '  at  home '  in  Eng 
land  or  Scotland,  Ohio,  Virginia  or  Pennsylvania, 
has  a  roof  to  be  under — a  roof  of  slate,  where  Na 
ture  herself  played  tiler,  and  decorator  withal,  for 
those  roofs  of  slate  all  bear  imprints  of  ferns — the 
lithographs  of  old  time.  And  last  of  all  the  brother 
hood,  I  shall  mention,  there  is  the  Lignite,  with  its 
clove-brown  tint,  and  its  woody  texture.  And  better 
company  it  keeps,  than  the  most  of  its  genus.  You 
may  find  it  strown  in  the  Amber  Mines  of  Prussia, 
and  amid  the  crystals  of  an  Iceland  winter  ;  Lignite 
betrays  the  secret  of  its  origin,  for  there  are  the  fibres 
still,  the  outlines  of  the  branches  and  the  leaves  of 
trees,  that  once  had  life  in  them,  and  beauty  and 
music. 

Ah  !  who  wonders  the  Coal  has  so  sorrowful  a  tone, 
as  it  glows  and  sighs  there  in  the  grate,  with  its  voice  of 
the  Dead.  The  Dead  ?  We  said,  awhile  ago,  the  Mighty 
Dead  ?  and  it  is  mighty.  Open  that  Atlas,  lying  under 


VOICES    OF    THE    DEAD.  201 

your  elbow  there,  and  find  for  me  New- York,  and  then 
pass  your  finger  over  that  parti-colored  robe  of  States, 
through  the  South  Pass,  away  where  you  can  fancy 
you  hear  the  clink  of  the  diggers  of  gold.  Would 
you  see  the  power  that  can  weave  that  full  breadth 
of  space  into  something  like  a  selvedge,  with  the  Steam 
Engine  ?  Look  in  that  grate,  and  you  shall  see  the 
thing  that  can  do  it.  Do  you  see  that  Mountain's 
steep,  and  that  granite  column  at  its  base  ?  Ambi 
tion's  self  could  not  raise  it  to  that  mountain's  brow 
with  regiments  of  men,  in  half  a  century ;  but  a 
dozen  bushels  of  Coal  can  do  it,  in  half  an  hour ! 

But  those  fragments  of  coal  have  burned  out,  and 
the  grato  is  no  longer  of  a  glow.  I  take  the  shovel 
and  stir  the  bed  they  have  made  for  themselves.  No 
thing  but  ashes — ashes  for  the  garment  of  mourning — 
ashes  for  the  urn — ashes  for  the  winds — the  mighty 
Dead  no  more  ! 


9* 


202  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 


TO-MORROW  is  Thanksgiving  Day.  '  Come  to  think,' 
there  was  no  necessity  for  telling  it.  There  is  no 
school,  so  the  children  all  know  it;  no  paper,  the 
editors  and  devils  all  know  it ;  the  Governor  has  pro 
claimed  it,  and  every  hody  knows  it.  Some  people 
have  visions  of  turkeys  '  ahout  these  days  ;'  I  don't. 
Some  people  have  turkeys  ;  I  haven't.  But  no  mat 
ter  for  that ;  I  love  Thanksgiving  Day  for  the  memo 
ries  it  brings  with  it.  Do  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what 
has  become  of  those  old  days,  and  why  don't  they 
make  them  so  now  ?  Has  '  the  clerk  of  the  weather  ' 
lost  the  recipe,  or  what,  in  the  name  of  scythes  and 
forelocks,  is  the  matter  ?  It  used  to  be,  that  Thanks 
giving  wasn't  Monday,  or  Tuesday,  or  Wednesday,  or 
any  other  day  of  the  seven,  but  a  day  by  itself,  put  in 
by  "  special  act,"  to  make  people  happy  and  friendly, 
and  human,  and  all  that ;  but  some  how  or  other,  it 
has  changed.  Almanacs  have  changed,  or  we  have  ; 
and  greatly  do  we  fear  it  is  the  '  we.' 

Kind  reader,  I  never  saw  you,  don't  know  you,  but 
here's  my  hand,  and  there's  a  chair ;  and  now  for  a 


THANKSGIVING.  203 

tete-a-tete  about  old  times.  The  last  time  you  were 
at  home  Thanksgiving  day — do  you  remember  ?  When 
the  boys  came  home  from  college,  or  some  where,  and 
the  married  sister,  Ann,  or  Jane,  or  something  else, 
came  too,  as  proud  of  the  little  white-flannel  bundle, 
with  blue  eyes,  that  made  uncles,  aunts,  grandfather 
and  grandmother,  with  its  first  glance,  as  ever  queen 
was  of  her  crown  ?  And  wasn't  that  baby  a  novelty 
in  the  old  homestead  ?  And  was  it  you  or  me,  that 
rummaged  the  garret  for  the  old  red  cradle  they  lulled 
us  in,  when,  fast  to  the  strong  moorings  of  a  mother's 
love,  we  rocked  on  the  hither  shore  of  time  ?  And 
who  brought  down  '  the  high  chair,'  that,  in  turn, 
had  been  the  throne  for  a  half  dozen  of  us,  "  more  or 
less,"  in  turn,  as  we  grew  large  enough  to  wield  the 
weapons  of  table  warfare  ?  And  who  doesn't  remem 
ber  where  that  chair  was  tucked  away  in  the  garret 
aforesaid  ?  Over  behind  the  little  wheel,  that  used 
to  hum  to  the  sweet  song  mother  sang,  years  and 
years  ago.  And  there's  the  distaff  now,  in  the  chink 
of  a  rafter.  Do  you  remember  the  fine  morning  we 
went  to  the  woods  after  it,  and  a  bright,  black-eyed 
boy,  just  turned  of  four,  went  too  ?  There  he  sits 
now,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  '  in  the  old 
place,'  with  whiskers  and  a  beard,  and  a  voice  that 


204  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

would  mock  a  nor' wester.  That  song !  How  we 
tried  to  get  mother  to  sing  the  old  song  we  loved  so 
well  ! 

"  Boys,  I  can't  sing,"  says  the  old  lady  ;  "  my  sing 
ing  days  are  over."  But  she  was  over-persuaded,  as 
she  alicays  was — for  to  which  of  us  did  she  ever 
refuse  a  boon  ? — and  how  still  it  was  when  she  began  ! 
Her  voice  was  like  a  fast-failing  fountain.  She  fal 
tered  as  the  old  memories  came  thronging  back  upon 
her,  and  some  how  her  glasses  were  a  little  dim,  and 
she  took  them  off  to  wipe  them,  and  some  how  all 
our  eyes  were  a  little  dim.  God  bless  the  old-fash 
ioned  mothers  for  ever  !  Who  of  us  didn't  say  it 
then  ?  "Who  of  us  does  not  breathe  it  now  ? 

Well,  then  came  the  dinner — the  Thanksgiving 
Dinner.  How  the  pantry  and  the  poultry  had  suf 
fered  to  '  furnish  forth '  that  marriage  table — the 
marriage  of  the  present  and  the  past.  It  was  the  old 
table  with  the  fall  leaves,  that  had  succeeded  the 
little  predecessor,  when  there  were  only  father,  mother, 
and  one  baby.  The  old  strife  "  to  set  the  chairs  "  up, 
is  renewed.  We  are  all  seated — every  chair  filled. 
Filled  ?  Every  chair  ?  Ah  !  but  one,  or  two,  or 
three.  God  grant  it  be  but  one  !  God  grant  it  be 
not  one  !  That  one  vacant  place  !  All  see  it,  all 


THANKSGIVING.  205 

remember.  There  is  a  pause  ;  a  thought  and  a  sigh 
for  the  absent,  and  the  battle  begins.  How  old 
reminiscences  are  revived  !  and  we  all  get,  years  nearer 
the  purer  realm  of  childhood  and  Heaven. 

The  afternoon  wears  away.  Apples  from  the  trees 
that  were  planted  when  each  of  us  was  born,  are 
brought  from  the  cellar,  that  aforetime  was  the  very 
'  blue  closet '  of  unimaginable  terrors  to  the  timid  of 
us.  And  among  them,  is  an  apple  from  FRED'S  tree, 

and  Fred  is No  body  can  say  it,  so  every  body  is 

silent. 

One  look  at  the  rooms  ;  the  "  north  room,"  and  the 
"south  room,"  and  the  "east  room."  Here  are 
So  -  and  -  so's  initials  on  the  window  -  casing.  They 
look  dim,  but  maybe  the  dimness  is  nearer  the  eyes, 
after  all. 

The  sleigh-bells  (there  used  to  be  snmv  in  old-fash 
ioned  Thanksgivings,)  chime  impatient  at  the  door. 
Such  bundling,  and  muffling,  and  good-bying — the  old 
lady  urging  us,  every  one  in  turn,  to  keep  warm,  and 
tying  our  '  comforters  ' — tliaCs  the  word — over  again, 
and  all  that.  Away  we  go,  one  after  another,  and 
the  old  homestead  is  quiet  again.  The  branches  of 
the  old  oak  rustle  audibly  over  the  roof,  in  the  No- 


206  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

vember  wind,  and  a  family  is  again  scattered  over  the 
world. 

Maybe  now,  some  '  mighty  man,'  like  those  of  old, 
who  has  '  put  away  childish  things,'  and  has  forgot 
ten  he  was  ever  born,  may  deem  this  puerile.  "Well, 
well,  I  have  no  more  to  say  than  this  :  we  can  all 
lo  much  worse  than  to  be  children  again,  for 

'  Of  such  as  they  are,  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.' 


SARCASTIC  people  are  wont  to  say  that  poets  dwell 
in  garrets,  and  simple  people  believe  it.  And  others, 
neither  sarcastic  nor  simple,  send  them  up  aloft,  among 
the  rubbish,  just  because  they  do  not  know  what  to 
do  with  them  down  stairs  and  '  among  folks,'  and  so 
they  class  them  under  the  head  of  rubbish,  and  con 
sign  them  to  that  grand  receptacle  of  dilapidated 
'  has-beens,'  and  despised  '  used-to-be's'  —  the  old 
garret. 

The  garret  is  to  the  other  apartments  of  the  home- 


THE   OLD    GARRET.  207 

stead  what  the  adveib  is  to  the  pedagogue  in  pars 
ing  :  every  thing  they  do  not  know  how  to  dispose  of, 
is  consigned  to  the  list  of  adverbs.  And  it  is  for  this 
precise  reason  that  I  love  garrets ;  because  they  do 
contain  the  relics  of  the  old  and  the  past — souvenirs 
of  other  and  happier  and  simpler  times. 

They  have  come  to  build  houses  now-a-days  with 
out  garrets.  Impious  innovation  ! 

You  man  of  bronze  and  '  bearded  like  the  pard,' 
who  would  make  people  believe,  if  you  could,  that 
you  never  were  '  a  toddlin  wee  thing  ;'  that  you  never 
wore  '  a  rifle-dress,'  or  jingled  a  rattle-box  with  infi 
nite  delight ;  that  you  never  had  a  mother,  and  that 
she  never  became  an  old  woman,  and  wore  caps  and 
spectacles,  and  maybe  took  snufF;  go  home  once 
more,  after  all  these  years  of  absence,  all  booted  and 
whiskered,  and  six  feet  high  as  you  are,  and  let  us  go 
up  the  stairs  together,  into  that  old-fashioned  spacious 
garret,  that  extends  from  gable  to  gable,  with  its 
narrow,  oval  windows,  with  a  spider-web  of  a  sash, 
through  which  steals  '  a  dim  religious  light'  upon  a 
museum  of  things  unnamable,  that  once  figured  be 
low  stairs,  but  were  long  since  crowded  out  by  the 
Vandal  hand  of  these  modern  times. 

The  loose  boards  of  the  floor  rattle  somewhat  as 


208  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

they  used  to  do — don't  they? — when  beneath  your 
little  pattering  feet  they  clattered  aforetime,  when  of 
a  rainy  day,  '  mother,'  wearied  with  many-tongued 
importunity,  granted  the  '  Let  us  go  up  garret  and 
play.'  And  play?  Precious  little  of  'play'  have 
you  had  since,  I'll  warrant,  with  your  looks  of  dig 
nity  and  your  dreamings  of  amhition. 

Here  we  are  now  in  the  midst  of  the  garret.  The 
old  barrel  —  shall  we  rummage  it?  Old  files  of 
newspapers,  dusty,  yellow,  a  little  tattered  !  'Tis 
the  '  Columbian  Star.'  How  familiar  the  type 
looks  !  How  it  reminds  you  of  old  times,  when  you 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  counter,  with  the  '  Let 
ters  or  papers  for  father !'  And  these  same  Stars, 
just  damp  from  the  press,  were  carried  one  by  one 
to  the  fire-side,  and  perused  and  preserved  as  they 
ought  to  be.  Stars  ?  Damp  ?  Ah  !  many  a  star 
has  set  since  then,  and  many  a  new-turfed  heap 
grown  dewy  and  damp  with  rain  that  fell  not  from 
the  clouds. 

Dive  deeper  into  the  barrel.  There  !  A  bundle — 
up  it  comes,  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  Old  Almanacs,  by 
all  that  is  memorable !  Almanacs,  thin-leaved 
ledgers  of  time,  going  back  to — let  us  see  how  far : 
184-,  183-,  182-,— before  our  time— 180-,  when 


THE    OLD    GARRET.  209 

our  mothers  were  children.  And  the  day-book — how 
blotted  and  blurred  with  many  records  and  many 
tears ! 

There,  you  have  hit  your  head  against  that  beam. 
Time  was,  when  you  ran  to  and  fro  beneath  it,  but 
you  are  nearer  to  it  now,  by  more  than  '  the  altitude 
of  a  copine.'  That  beam  is  strown  with  forgotten 
papers  of  seeds  for  next  year's  sowing  ;  a  distaff,  with 
some  few  shreds  of  flax  remaining,  is  thrust  in  a 
crevice  of  the  rafters  overhead  ;  and  tucked  away 
close  under  the  eaves  is  '  the  little  wheel,'  that  used 
to  stand  by  the  fire  in  times  long  gone.  Its  sweet, 
low  song  has  ceased ;  and  perhaps  —  perhaps  she 
drew  those  flaxen  threads — but  never  mind — you  re 
member  the  line,  don't  you  ? 

'Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  charms  no  more.' 

Well,  let  that  pass.  Do  you  see  that  little  craft 
careened  in  that  dark  corner  ?  It  was  red  once  ;  it 
was  the  only  casket  in  the  house  once,  and  contained 
a  mother's  jewels.  The  old  red  CRADLE,  for  all  the 
world  !  And  you  occupied  it  once  :  ay,  great  as  you 
are,  it  was  your  world  once,  and  over  it,  the  only 
horizon  you  beheld,  bent  the  heaven  of  a  mother's 


210  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

eyes,  as  you  rocked  in  that  little  barque  of  lovo,  on 
the  hither  shore  of  time — fast  by  a  mother's  love  to 
a  mother's  heart. 

And  there,  attached  to  two  rafters,  are  the  frag 
ments  of  an  untwisted  rope.  Do  you  remember  it, 
and  what  it  was  for,  and  who  fastened  it  there  ? 
'Twas  '  the  children's  swing.'  You  are  here,  indeed, 
but  where  are  NELLY  and  CHARLEY  ?  There  hangs 
his  little  cap  by  that  window,  and  there  the  little  red 
frock  she  used  to  wear.  A  crown  is  resting  on  his 
cherub  brow,  and  her  robes  are  spotless  in  the  better 
land. 


alf-f  ffwr   at   tjrt 


PRECIOUS  little  sunlight  finds  its  way  into  the  apart 
ment  where  I  write,  these  dark,  December  days,  and 
precious  that  little  is.  It  falls  on  the  grove  across  the 
road,  sometimes  gilds  the  top  of  a  leafless  tree,  and 
comes  to  me  second-hand,  '  a  little  the  worse  for 
wear,'  as  they  say  ;  but  then  welcome,  very  welcome, 
tarnished  and  tired  as  it  is.  Tired  ?  To  be  sure. 
They  talk  of  sunbeams  playing  and  dancing  ;  and  so 
they  may,  and  so  they  do,  round  sparkling  fountains, 


A  HALF-HOUR  AT  THE  WINDOW.        211 

and  over  great  green  billows  of  foliage,  but  they  do 
nothing  of  the  sort  in  such  times  as  this.  Very  sedate 
and  well-behaved  sunbeams  are  they  indeed,  about 
here  ! 

Well,  yesterday  I  was  writing  ;  the  shadows  that 
room  with  me,  lay  here  and  there ;  two  or  three  were 
rolled  up  in  the  corner ;  one  stood  behind  the  door, 
close  to  the  wall ;  another  ill-mannered  fellow  extended 
itself  on  the  table,  and  flung  its  unrustling  skirt  over 
the  very  sheet  where  I  was  writing.  There  are 
worse  room-mates  than  shadows,  after  all.  True, 
they  leave  their  clothes  lying  about  any  where  and 
every  where  ;  but  then  they  never  wear  boots,  never 
make  a  noise,  and  are  not  given  to  gossipping. 

As  I  intimated,  a  few  lines  ago,  I  was  writing, 
when,  all  at  once,  a  bright  gleam  flashed  across  the 
paper,  and  was  gone.  A  rare  visitor  it  was,  and  it's 
no  wonder  I  wondered  how  it  got  here.  I  looked 
up  :  silent  grove  ;  leafless  tree  ;  nothing  more.  Re 
suming  the  pen,  again  it  came.  Pure  and  beautiful 
enough  to  have  come  right  from  heaven,  it  seemed. 
Was  it  a  mirror  swinging  in  the  wanton  wind  some 
where,  that  flung  that  ray  ?  Or  a  radiant  face,  such 
as  one  sees,  once  or  twice  in  a  life-time — not  more — 
in  the  middle  of  a  morning  dream  ;  that  one  always 


212  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

thinks  of,  when  he  sees  young  and  beautiful  faces, 
and  looks  for,  but  never  sees  again — never  ? 

It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  muse  on  ;  so  I  laid  down 
the  pen,  and  remembered — that's  just  the  word — 
remembered.  One  shape  melted  into  another,  for 
Memory  was  playing  '  i'  the  plighted  clouds.' 

Another  gleam  upon  the  paper,  and  at  the  instant, 
a  WHITE  WING  glanced  across  the  window,  on  its  way 
down  to  the  street.  I  looked  out,  and  there,  sure 
enough,  amid  the  whirling  snow,  was  a  white  dove. 

Her  errand  was  a  beautiful  one,  no  doubt ;  seeking, 
perhaps,  the  wherewith  to  hush  '  the  three  grains  of 
corn,  mother,'  her  little  family  were  plaintively  sing 
ing,  some  where  aloft.  Pretty  soon,  up  she  came 
again,  out  of  the  drifting  snow,  flinging  another  ray 
from  that  white  wing  as  she  went. 

Wasn't  it  a  beautiful  emblem  of  a  beautiful  life  ? 
Flinging  gladness  into  sad  hearts  :  glittering  upon 
many  a  trinket  of  Memory  and  Yesterday  ;  beads  of 
beauty,  shed  from  a  shivered  necklace,  rolled  darkly 
away  in  the  dust,  that  no  hand  may  thread  again,  but 
His  '  who  doeth  all  things  well.' 

The  world  is  full  of  wings  ;  every  one  broad  enough 
to  bear  a  sunbeam,  and  strong  enough  to  fling  it  into 
some  dim  window,  some  gloomy  room,  some  dark 


A   HALF-HOUR    AT    THE    WINDOW.  213 

heart,  strewn  with  old  hopes,  and  damp  with  new 
tears. 

Bliss  and  blessing,  life  and  light,  are  all  winged. 
No  matter  for  that :  they  shall  be  folded  by  and  by, 
where  there  are  no  sunbeams  to  be  carried,  and  there 
is  no  night  at  all. 

I  laid  down  the  pen,  and  gazed  musingly  out  into 
the  winter,  and  there,  just  climbing  the  hill,  was  a 
young  man,  one  of  our  neighbors,  "  up  along,"  trudg 
ing  through  the  snow,  and  carrying,  beneath  one  arm, 
a  cradle — a  wicker  cradle ;  just  such  a  cradle  as 
makes  one  think  of  a  little  chicken  in  a  basket,  a 
little  jewel  in  cotton- wool,  or  a  little  baby,  or  some 
thing  else  little  and  precious. 

His  quickened  step,  and  a  sort  of  semi-elation,  semi- 
sheepishness  in  his  looks,  told  a  story  for  him  he 
wouldn't  have  whispered  for  twelve  dollars  a  month 
'  and  found.'  That  brand-new  cradle  was  for  a 
brand-new  tenant ;  he  didn't  care  who  knew  that ; 
and  he  was  the  father  of  it — nor  that  either  ;  and  his 
wife  was  the  mother  of  it — better  than  all.  But  then 
it  was  his  first  baby,  her  first  baby,  '  our '  first  baby. 
That  he  didn't  care  so  much  about  people's  knowing. 
He  would  a  little  rather  they  should  think  he  was 
used  to  it ;  that  the  old  cradle  was  worn  out,  or  the 


214  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

other  babies  tossed  in  a  '  baby  jumper,'  or  any  thing 
but  the  precise  truth,  no  matter  what. 

Innocent  soul !  He  little  dreamed  his  secret  was 
out ;  '  plain  as  a  pike-staff,'  legible  as  good  old  Saxon, 
to  every  body  that  met  him,  and  thought  about  it. 

On  he  went,  and  I  followed  him  home  in  thought, 
for  the  best  reason  in  life — I  couldn't  help  it.  And 
there  was  the  baby,  sure  enough,  done  up  in  dimity 
the  whitest,  trimmed  with  lace  edging  the  daintiest ; 
little  bits  of  pink  shoes  on  its  little  bits  of  pink  feet ; 
its  eyes  all  afloat  with  the  unwonted  light,  '  in  a  fine 
frenzy  rolling,'  a  dimple  on  either  cheek,  a  double 
chin,  oh  !  how  fat — and  such  a  head  of  hair  !  To  be 
sure,  its  nose  is  the  least  curve  in  the  world  puggish  ; 
tell  it  to  them  if  you  are  tired  of  life.  To  be  sure, 
its  voice  is  by  no  means  the  softest ;  hint  it,  if  you 
are  shrived.  But  then  it's  a  baby,  in  fact  the  baby, 
and  '  a  well-spring  of  pleasure  '  it  is,  indeed. 

And  there's  the  mother,  just  pale  enough  to  look 
'  interesting,'  and  that  I  -  ask  -  no  -  more  smile  would 
beautify  a  face  colored  from  the  tents  of  Kedar ;  but 
then  she  isn't  homely ;  she's  handsome ;  young 
mothers  are  always  handsome — they  can't  help  it. 

And  then  it  was  to  be  a  girl — of  course  it  was  ; 
and  they  had  fixed  upon  a  name  to  hail  it  by,  the 


A    HALF-HOUR    AT    THE    WINDOW.  215 

moment  it  made  its  debut  into  breathdom.  Many 
was  the  playful  altercation  they  had  had  about  that 
same  name.  She  declared  it  should  be  called  Polly, 
after  his  grandmother  ;  and  he,  that  no  name  was  so 
beautiful  as  Lucy — his  wife's  name,  by-the-by ;  but 
she  conquered,  of  course ;  and  one  pair  of  lips,  at 
least,  was  puckered  to  utter  a  "  Polly,"  when  lo  !  a 
muscular  little  Hercules  of  a  fellow  came  plunging 
into  being  like  a  quarter-horse,  and  nameless  as  a 
young  buffalo.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  nomens 
and  cognomens  of  all  the  uncles,  maternal,  paternal, 
and  doubtful,  were  catalogued  and  canvassed ;  fore 
fathers,  and  more  too,  were  summoned  ;  but  after  all, 
just  as  any  body  could  have  told  beforehand,  she  con 
cluded,  nem.  con., — we  should  like  to  see  the  man 
with  a  heart  to  refuse,  as  she  lay  there,  her  hair 

'Brown  in  the  shadow,  golden  in  the  sun,' 

flowing  over  the  white  pillow,  and  her  soft  eyes  with 
a  new  look  in  them,  turned  upon  her  husband — she 
concluded,  then,  nem.  con.,  to  call  him — she  never 
degraded  the  boy  to  a  paltry  '  it ' — to  call  him  Frank. 
What' 11  you  wager  it  wasn't  the  name  of  the  fa 
ther  ? 

Well,  by  this  time  they've  got  the  little  fellow  in 


216  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

his  new  cradle,  and  as  the  mother  watches  him,  she 
weaves  a  sweet,  beguiling  song,  of  what  shall  be,  '  in 
the  good  time  coming,'  when  Frank  gets  to  be  five  ; 
when  he  gets  to  be  ten ;  when  he  comes  to  be  a  man, 
and  honors  his  mother,  and  '  lives  long  in  the  land 
that  the  Lord '  shall  give  him. 

Life  is  a  great  poem,  and  here,  rendered  into  the 
plainest  of  prose,  is  the  sweetest  of  its  stanzas. 

Night  had  set  in,  and  still  I  sat  by  the  window. 

Some  body  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  a  house 
over  the  way.  At  the  instant,  a  green  blind  above, 
just  opened  a  little  way,  and  by  the  light  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  flutter  of 
something  white,  and  a  bird-toned'  voice  softly  said, 
'  Who's  there  ?'  '  It's  me,'  was  the  brief  response. 
The  eye  and  the  flutter  disappeared  from  the  win 
dow,  like  stars  in  a  cloud,  and  I  fancied  I  could  hear 
the  pattering  of  two  little  feet  upon  the  stairs, 
winged  with  welcome. 

It  was  a  trifle  ;  it  all  happened  in  an  instant,  but 
it  haunted  me  for  an  hour — '  It's  me  !'  Amid  the 
darkness  and  storm,  those  words  fell  upon  the  quick 
ear  aloft,  and  met  a  glad  response. 

'  It's  me  !'  and  who  was  '  me  ?'  The  pride  of  a 
heart's  life,  no  doubt ;  the  tree  a  vine  was  clinging 


A    HALF-HOUR   AT    THE    WINDOW.  217 

to  ;  the  '  defender  of  the  faithful,'  in.  the  best  sense 
of  the-term. 

'  It's  me  !'  Many  there  are  who  would  give  half 
their  hearts,  and  more  than  half  the  hopes  in  them, 
for  one  such  recognition  in  this  '  wide,  wide  world.' 
At  the  Post  Office,  abroad,  in  the  wide  world,  he  was 
known  as  A.  B.  C.,  Esq.,  but  on  that  threshold,  and 
within  those  walls,  '  it's  me,'  and  nothing  more  ;  and 
what  more  is  there,  one  would  love  to  be  ? 

Few  of  all  the  hearts  that  beat  so  wildly,  warmly, 
sadly,  slowly,  but  can  recognize  a  true  eoul  amid  the 
darkness  of  the  world,  in  that  simple  but  eloquent 
'  it's  me.'  As  if  he  had  said — 

'  Now  I  am  nothing  to  all  the  world, 
For  I'm  all  the  world  to  thee.' 

The  clock  in  the  distant  village  strikes  '  ten ;'  the 
clouds  have  cleared  away,  one  after  another ;  the 
frost  twinkles  through  the  air ;  the  snow  crackles 
under  the  feet  of  the  brisk  pedestrian ;  the  sleigh- 
runners  grate,  as  they  slowly  surmount  the  hill ; 
some  overburdened  limb  in  the  woods  comes  crashing 
down  in  the  silence  ;  there  is  a  drowsy  chime  of  bells 
beyond  the  Lake  ;  the  landscape  is  as  cold  and  beau 
tiful  and  dumb  as  a  Daguerreotype. 
10 


218  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

How  strangely  the  moon  lights  up  the  past ;  how 
one  can  see  far-off  graves  hy  its  gleam  ;  how  it  shines 
through  the  years  that  are  gone  ;  how  the  trinkets  of 
memory  glitter,  when  its  ray  is  let  in  to  the  heart ; 

how  it  reveals 

'  the  tideless  shore, 
"Where  rests  the  •wreck  of  Heretofore !' 


All  Heaven  is  anchored  off  the  -world;    and  every,  every 

where, 

The  silver  surges  of  the  moon  make  music  through  the  air ; 
As  the  stars  revealed  by  night,  as  the  dew-drops  by  the  stars, 
So  the  bosom's  wordless  wealth,  by  the  moon-beam's  misty 

bars. 
Oh !  sunlight  for  the  world  of  things,  but  moonlight  for  the 

heart ! 
From  out  the  dreamy  shadows,  how  the  forms  of  beauty 

start ! 

n. 

How  they  throng  the  halls  of  Thought !  there  an  ANGEL-ONE 

appears ; 

Though  I  cannot  see  her  clearly  by  moonlight,  and  for  tears, 
I'd  know  that  foot-fall  any  where,  as  light  as  summer-rain, 
For  it  sets  my  pulses  playing,  as  none  can  do  again. 

m. 

Ah !  THOU  art  there,  my  Cynosure !  I  know  those  eyes  are 

thine; 

No  other  pair  would  ever  turn  so  lovingly  to  mine : 
And  now,  a  billow  of  green  turf  swells  breathless  o'er  her 

rest, 
As  if  it  feared  to  wake  the  babe  that  slumbers  on  her  breast; 


A    HALF-HOUR    AT    THE    WINDOW.  219 


Tho  bough  was  bent  to  breaking,  as  the  blast  went  sweep 
ing  by, 

But  the  nameless  bud  of  beauty  was  wafted  to  the  sky : 
And  thou,  fair  moon !  art  shining  on,  in  all  thy  glory  yet, 
As  if  upon  no  fairer  brow,  no  paler  seal  were  set. 


The  purling  azure  ever  parts  in  music  round  thy  prow; 

As  we  together  saw  thee  then,  so  I  behold  thee  now. 

And  yet,  methinks,  thy  deck   grows   dim  with   gray  and 

gathered  years; 
Not  so,  not  so !  untouched  by  time !     'Tis  nothing  but  these 

tears. 

VL 

I  wonder  not  the  stars  are  out,  to  see  thee  riding  by, 

And  not  a  breath  to  break  the  blue  of  all  that  blessed  sky : 

There's  just  one  cloud  in  all  that  dome  of  GOD'S  own  starry 

thought — 
One  little  cloud  of  Zephyr's  fleet,  left  floating  there,  forgot. 


Though  evening's  sun  did  gild  it  with  glories  rich  and  rare, 
Yet  well  might  Zephyr  sigh  again,  that  left  that  cloudlet 

there ; 

For  like  a  banner  weirdly  wove  in  wild  Campania's  loom, 
That  cloudlet's  volume  swells  aloft,  as  dark  and  deep  as 

doom. 

VIII. 

Not  all  thy  glory,  gentle  Moon !  can  turn  that  gloom  to  gold, 
Nor  nil  thy  silver  lure  a  star  to  light  a  single  fold. 
Good  night,  fair  Moon ! — good  night  again,  pale  captive  to 
the  cloud ; 


220  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

I've  seen  a  dearer  light   than  thou,    extinguished   by  the 

shroud. 
That  cloud  is  edged  with  silver  now ;  its  gloom  is  webbed 

with  gold ; 
The  stars  shine  through  it  every  where — a  pearl  in  every 

fold! 


RUSH  has  just  come  in  with  the  paper — our  paper, 
damp  from  the  press.  I  love  a  newspaper — a  new 
newspaper,  and  like  to  he  the  first  to  open  it.  The 
articles,  some  how,  seem  fresher,  and  wittier,  and 
wiser,  hefore  '  the  small  folio '  rustles  like  husks ; 
when  it  comes  open  silently,  and  you  can  fold  it  pre 
cisely  as  you  wish,  and  it  stays  folded  without  mur 
muring.  The  smell  of  damp  paper  and  good  ink — 
not  musty  ink — makes  one  fancy  it  was  printed  for 
his  particular  perusal,  and  no  body's  else. 

So  another  candle  is  placed  upon  the  stand,  the 
arm-chair  is  wheeled  boldly  round  in  front  of  the 
fire,  two  '  letters '  are  snuffed  from  the  candles,  the 
paper  is  opened,  and  I  begin  to — think. 

The  Press  !  Orators  have  lauded,  poets  sung,  but 
it  has  lost  none  of  its  wonder ;  it  is  still  a  marvel 


OUR    PAPER.  221 

and  a  mystery.  Think  of  it !  That  a  few  quiverings 
of  the  empty  air  can  float  a  thought  or  a  feeling  from 
mind  to  mind  ;  that  the  blue  breakers  can  throw  up, 
as  it  were  into  the  midst  of  a  heart,  a  jewel  of  a 
hope,  or  fling  a  star  of  truth  from  the  breast  of  a 
billow,  into  some  darkened  intellect,  is  quite  strange 
enough  for  a  fairy  tale,  and  yet  quite  true  enough  for 
a  sermon.  But  that  the  footprints  of  thought  can  be 
made  visible  upon  the  snowy  page — that  they  may 
be  traced  and  retraced,  when  the  Thinker  is  dead, 
and  all  but  '  the  enduring  produce '  of  his  mind,  a 
dream — this  is  more  wonderful  still.  The  thought 
that  one  has  cherished  in  his  bosom,  until  it  bears 
his  own  mental  image,  is  stamped  upon  the  wing  of 
the  newspaper,  or  the  page  of  the  volume,  as  it  flut 
ters  from  the  press,  and  that  thought  finds  access  and 
hearing,  where  the  man  himself  cannot  venture. 
Perhaps  he  is  awkward,  deformed,  a  stammerer,  and 
a  subject  of  ridicule ;  perhaps  his  garb  is  coarse,  and 
well-worn  and  patched  ;  but  there  stands  his  Thought, 
in  the  drawing  room,  the  hall,  representative  of  the 
better  part  of  him — graceful,  elegant,  arrayed  in 
rich  old  Saxon,  welcomed,  listened  to,  admired  every 
where.  Perhaps  he  has  never  gone  beyond  the  blue 
verge  of  vision,  whereof  his  cradle  was  the  centre ; 


222  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

but  that  thought  of  his,  has  been  borne  along  earth's 
great  rivers    on  panting  steamers,   and  over  God's 
great  clearings  by  locomotives ;  even  the  lightnings 
have    forgotten   thoir  thunders,   and    whispered   the 
accents  of  his  thought,  as  they  flickered  along  the 
wire,  from  mart  to  hamlet,  from  hamlet  to  mart 
again.     Perhaps  he  dies,  and  the  swelling  turf  sub 
sides  above  him  like  a  weary  wave,  leaving  no  trace 
of  his  resting  place,  but  that  thought  lives  on.     The 
paper  is  old  and  torn  ;  it  wears  the  yellow  livery  of 
Time ;  Time  has  made  it  his  menial ;  but  some  eye 
shall  see  it  when  he  is  dead  ;  some  memory  treasure, 
and  some  mind   admire.     Like  the  bird  that  went 
forth  from  the  ark,  it  is  returnless ;  the  music  of  its 
wing  is  heard,  when  the  knell  for  the  palsied  hand 
that  sent  it  out,  has  died  upon  the  air :  it  is  immortal. 
Perhaps  some  nobler  mind  has  divested  it  of  its  first 
array,  and  clothed  it  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  transfigured 
and  glorified,  it  still  survives,  but  the  same  Thought 
still. 

Mighty  engine,  is  that  PRESS,  against  time.  The 
rattle  of  its  machinery  seems  to  me  but  the  first  audi 
ble  footfall  of  thought,  on  its  sublime  out-going  into 
the  world ;  its  mission  unended,  till  the  pitcher  is 
broken  at  the  last  fountain  of  human  thought,  '  the 


OUR    PAPER.  223 

dust  returning  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit 
unto  God  who  gave  it.' 

Why,  by  the  power  of  the  Press,  the  steps  of  mor 
tality  itself  are  staid,  and  full-orbed  intellects,  at  the 
word  of  this  Joshua  of  iron,  stand  still,  and  the 
prayer  of  Telamon's  mighty  son,  '  for  light,'  is 
answered. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  the  impression  of  the  first 
type,  upon  tho  printed  page,  was  crimson.  It  was  but 
the  flushing  of  a  new  morning,  that  has  dawned  upon 
the  intellectual  world.  Oh  !  in  that  black,  unseemly 
engine,  lies  the  world's  great  strength,  and  Time's 
most  formidable  foe. 


LUCY,  who  is  trying  to  '  pick  up'  a  refractory  stitch, 
breaks  in  upon  my  train  of  thought,  just  here,  with, 
'Any  body  married  or  dead  ?'  Just  like  a  woman  ! 

One  death  !     Little  LOUISE  L . 

The  ancients  used  to  fancy  the  fountain  of  Are- 
thusa  could  change  age  into  immortal  youth  and 
beauty ;  and  though  the  divinities  of  the  fountain, 
the  river  and  the  forest,  have  passed  away,  there  is 
something  attractive  in  the  fancy,  and  there  is  hardly 
one  who  would  not  rear  it  into  a  faith  if  he  could. 


224  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

The  fountain  of  Arethusa  may,  long  ago,  have  inter 
mitted,  but  the  cliarm  it  used  to  wear,  like  Hope,  is 
lingering  still. 

There  are  those  who  daily  find  that  fountain,  and 
are  ever  young  ;  the  beings  that  pass  away  in  infancy ; 
that  are  enshrined  in  memory  ;  that  smile  on  us  with 
their  gentle  eyes,  from  away  through  the  distant 
years ;  that  never  grow  old,  but  remain  children 
still,  though  the  cradle  that  rocked,  and  the  roof  that 
sheltered,  and  the  bosom  that  pillowed  them,  have 
mouldered  away. 

How  could  I  help  thinking  so,  when  I  read  the 
brief  record  that  a  little  being  who  had  filled,  we 
know,  a  large  place  in  more  hearts  than  one,  had 
turned  cherub  ?  And  I  could  not  help  thinking,  too, 
that  it  is  hardly  a  bereavement,  after  all,  that  one  of 
all  our  treasures  should  grow  immortal  and  change 
less  ;  one,  of  all  our  loves,  should  triumph  over  time, 
and  shine  like  a  star,  amid  the  clouds  of  the  world, 
with  a  constant  and  beautiful  light. 

Oh  !  many  a  LOUISE,  to-day,  is  linking  earth  to 
heaven  ;  and  who  would  make  the  number  less  ? 
Without  a  tear,  they  are  awaiting  us  just  beyond  the 
azure  ;  ever  young — ever  the  children  we  laid  them 


OUR    PAPER.  225 

down — accepted  candidates  for  the  Kingdom  of  Hea 
ven. 

'  There  is  no  fold,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ; 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 
But  hath  one  vacant  chair.' 

Here  in  the  corner — the  poet's  corner,  (why  is  he 
always  set  in  the  corner,  like  a  naughty  boy — can 
any  body  tell?) — are  two  or  three  stanzas  in  little 
type. 

They  describe  the  bright  spring  days  as  having 
come,  and  the  cottage  door  set  open  wide,  and  the 
mother  sewing  within  the  lonely  room,  and  there 
being  nothing  to  delay  her  sewing  on,  because 

"The  little  hindering  thing  has  gone.' 

It  may  not  so  impress  you,  perhaps,  but  there  is  to 
me,  in  that  '  little  hindering  thing,'  something  won 
derfully  suggestive.  How  it  conjures  up  the  memory 
of  that  little  voice,  those  little  pattering  feet,  those 
thousand  calls  from  sleep  to  sleep  again,  for  this  and 
that,  so  weaving  up  a  mother's  life  of  love,  with  that 
little  being's  destiny. 

"  Little   hindering    thing,"    indeed  !      The  world 

10* 


226  JANUARY    AXD    JUNE. 

were  better  to-day,  had  there  been  more  things  to 
hinder  it  from  growing  old  —  from  forgetting  the 
past. 


THERE  is  a  queer  advertisement,  just  beneath  the 
brief  announcement  of  sweet  Louise'  translation  ;  and 
it  reads  thus  : 

SPIRIT  RAPPINGS. — Communications  with  the  Spirit  Land, 
25  cents. 

Haven't  we  fallen  upon  wonderful  times  ?  Post 
age  to  Heaven  only  twenty-five  cents  !  No  ferry  on 
the  Jordan  ;  no  line  of  telegraph  beyond  it ;  no  con 
tract  for  carrying  the  mail  that  we  can  read  of;  and 
yet,  for  a  paltry  quarter,  here  we  have  '  the  latest 
advices'  from  Hades  !  If  it  were  true — if  it  were  not 
a  sacrilegious  humbug — there  certainly  would  be 
balm  and  beauty  in  it.  The  Rachels  of  our  day 
could  '  send  a-  wish  and  a  thought '  after  the  lispers 
whom  '  the  Gods  loved,'  and  the  Angel  in  charge, 
would  transmit  a  line  or  two,  in  behalf  of  the  little 
Marys  and  Charleys  '  gone  on  before.'  Fatherless 
sons  could  take  counsel  of  departed  sires,  and  sainted 
mothers  recall,  in  spirit  whispers,  their  errant  children. 


OUR    PAPER.  227 

Husbands  could  waft  words  of  love  to  the  dear  ones 
that  wandered  awhile  with  them,  in  disguise  ;  widows 
could  —  if  they  ivould,  for  widows  are  '  wonder 
fully  sustained,'  some  how,  'in  the  general.'  The 
lover's  dream,  and  the  poet's  song,  would  thus  be 
realized,  and  many  a  welcoming,  many  a  warning 
voice  would  be  wafted  across  the  dark  river ;  white 
hands  would  beckon,  through  the  night,  to  the  wait 
ing  this  side  the  water  ;  happy  would  he  be,  who  had 
some  friend  beyond  the  Jordan,  that  the  tear  of  part 
ing  here,  might  brighten  in  the  smile  of  meeting 
there.  The  poor  washerwoman  would  consecrate, 
each  week,  a  hard-earned  quarter,  to  hear  from  little 
NELLY,  whose  spotless  garments  were  '  washed  and 
made  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb ;'  and  the 
appalling  waste  of  nothingness  'twixt  this  world  and 
that,  would  be  bridged  for  ever. 


•ARRIVAL  from  California !  A  million  of  gold- 
dust  !  Great  news  from  the  mines  !'  And  so  it  runs 
on,  in  great  grenadiers  of  letters,  a  regiment  of  excla 
mation  points  bringing  up  the  rear.  And  so  it  goes, 
through  three  mortal  columns. 


228  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

'  Gold,  gold,  gold,  gold ! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold ; 
Molten,  graven,  hammered  and  rolled, 
Heavy  to  get,  but  light  to  hold.' 

And  what  a  list  of  returned  wanderers  !  I  glance 
rapidly  down  the  A's,  the  B's,  the  C's  and  the  D's, 
till  here  are  the  S's,  but  there  is  no  SILAS.  SILAS 
has  not  come.  Wonder  if  he  knows  they  are  waiting 
for  him  here — a  few,  a  dozen  or  so ;  for  he  must 
have  found  one  truth  in  the  Placers  :  that  a  man  is 
passing  rich  who  can  number  friends  enough  for  a 
jury.  "Wonder  if  he  knows  that  some,  two  or  three 
or  so — he  is  rich,  indeed,  who  can  lose  two  or  three 
and  not  he  bankrupt ! — have  wearied  of  waiting,  and 
'  wrapped  the  drapery  of  the  couch  around  them  ?' 

In  the  midst  of  the  gathering  of  the  clans,  en  route 
for  the  land  of  gold,  the  air  full  of  farewells  to  the 
departing,  and  hundreds  of  homes  made  tearful  and 
lonely,  it  is  gratifying  to  hear  the  cheerful  tones  of 
greeting,  breaking  in  upon  the  saddened  and  subdued 
voices  of  '  the  left  behind  ;'  to  see  faces  kindled  with 
the  cloudless  light  of  returning  joy.  Such  a  sight, 
and  such  sounds,  I  witnessed  and  heard  upon  the  cars 
of  the  Southern  Michigan  Road,  a  day  or  two  since. 
Just  in  front  of  me,  sat  a  group  that  would  make  a 


OUR    PAPER.  229 

picture  for  a  painter.  The  central  figure  was  a 
woman,  a  wife  and  a  mother.  She  was  deeply, 
calmly  happy.  Around  her  were  three  children  :  a 
fine,  bright-eyed  boy  of  some  twelve  years,  a  girl  of 
seven  or  eight,  and  a  round-faced,  chubby  little  crea 
ture  of  golden  four.  Above  them  all,  towered  the 
form  of  the  husband  and  father.  I  know  he  had 
been  absent  from  home  for  a  long  time — that  he  had 
just  rejoined  his  family.  One  moment  he  drew  the 
boy  to  him,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  movement ; 
the  next,  he  was  looking  at  the  little  one,  evidently 
almost  a  stranger  to  him,  while  the  round  face  was 
turned  up  inquiringly  to  the  bearded  stranger ;  and 
the  next,  he  had  a  word  for  his  wife  and  a  glance  for 
his  daughter,  and  another  tightening  of  his  arm 
round  the  eldest  hope  of  his  house. 

It  was  a  beautiful  picture  ;  more  beautiful,  indeed, 
than  ever  came  from  the  airy  chambers  of  a  prince 
of  the  pencil. 

What  cared  he,  what  thought  he,  that  the  eyes  of 
strangers  were  upon  him  ?  That  they  could  read  his 
story  '  like  a  book  ?'  That  he  had  been  to  California, 
that  he  had  been  successful ;  that  he  had  just  re 
turned  ;  that  he  was  happy ;  that  they  were  happy  ; 
there  was  no  mistaking  it. 


230  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

May  there  be  many  such  returns,  and  greetings, 
and  homes,  in  that  silver  time,  '  by  and  by,'  when 
they  all  get  home,  and  the  unused  chairs  are  brought 
out  again,  and  every  place  at  the  old  family  table  is 
filled,  and  the  'leaf  that  has  hung  so  long  useless 
by  that  table's  side,  is  raised  once  more. 

All  get  home  !  Will  they  all  return  ?  Witt  those 
places  all  be  occupied  again  ?  Knells  sound  softly, 
sadly,  from  out  the  years  to  come,  and  dimly  look 
those  days  through  mists  of  tears.  But  there  ehall  be 
gladness  too,  as  sometimes  we  see,  in  summer,  in  tho 
distant  fields,  and  along  the  slopes  .of  hills,  the  sun 
light  brightly  resting,  while  all  around  us  is  mantled 
in  shadow.  The  sound  of  bridal  bells,  merry  bells, 
and  merry  voices,  comes  to  us  from  the  future,  blended 
with  the  sigh  and  the  knell,  and  making  the  music 
of  this  life  of  ours. 


'  EXHIBITION  in  our  school,  to-morrow  evening  !' 
'  Exhibition  !'     Isn't  that  a  word  to  conjure  with  ? 
Doesn't  it  summon  up  '  the  days  that  are  no  more  ?' 

Those  first  kindlings  of  emulation ;  those  tear- 
blotted  compositions  ;  those  first  mysteries  of  Euclid  ; 
those  ludicrous  assays  in  the  making  of  Latin ;  the 


OUR   PAPER.  231 

teacher's  dreaded  frown,  and  his  no  less  coveted  smile ; 
those  Wednesday  afternoons,  when,  with  clean  collars 
and  shining  faces,  we  were  all  '  the  orators  of  the 
day ;'  those  tremblings  and  palpitations  before  it 
became  '  our  turn,'  and  the  flush  when  the  dread  artil 
lery  of  eyes,  from  the  encouraging  look  of  the  teacher 
to  the  roguish  glances  of  the  gleeful  girls  was  levelled 
at  us ; — all  roguish  but  one,  and  that  one — who  would 
not  acquit  himself  well  in  her  eyes  ? — those  strolls 
on  Saturday  ;  those  first  lessons  we  took  in  good  old 
Isaac  Walton's  gentle  art,  in  the  little  creeks  that 
glittered  like  skeins  of  silver  from  the  hills  ;  those 
'  black-berryings '  in  summer  and  snowy  battles  in 
winter  ;  and,  more  than  all,  those  hurried  pressures 
of  hands,  and,  now  and  then,  of  lips  maybe,  in  moon 
light  strolls,  and  sleighing  parties,  and  the  like  ;  those 
fervent,  though  evanescent  attachments  that  so  devel- 
ope  our  emotive  nature,  and  after  long  years  of  sepa 
ration  and  forgetfulness,  linger  round  the  heart,  like 
the  murmur  of  its  ocean  home  in  the  sea-shell's 
tinted  hall ;  these,  all  these,  rush  on  the  thought,  and 
make  us  sigh  for  those  halcyon  days  when 

1  "We  used  to  think  the  forest  tops 
"Were  close  against  the  sky!' 


232  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

And  there  was  the  dread  ordeal  of  examination,  and 
the  last  night's  exhibition,  and  the  crowded  hall,  and 
the  lights  that  danced  before  our  eyes,  as  if  keeping 
time  with  our  hopes  and  hearts — in  Memory's  eyes 
they  are  dancing  yet !  Then,  the  excitement  over, 
the  day  of  parting  came  ;  all  was  hurry  and  bustle  ; 
trunks  were  packed,  book-shelves  tenantless,  drawers 
emptied.  There  goes  the  horn !  and  the  yellow,  mud- 
bespattered  coach  comes  rocking  up  the  gravelled 
walk  before  the  door. 

One  after  another,  the  little  party  are  seated  ;  good 
byes  are  exchanged  ;  handkerchiefs  waved  from  win 
dows  and  doors,  by  many  a  fair  little  hand ;  tears 
are  brushed  hastily  away;  a  twinge  at  the  heart 
strings — crack  !  goes  the  driver's  whip,  and  away 
rolls  a  part  of  our  little  world.  Another  vehicle,  and 
another,  in  turn  receive  their  precious  freight.  Fare 
wells  grow  fainter,  the  utterance  is  choked,  smiles 
are  mockery ;  these  are  parting,  to  meet  no  more 
within  those  pleasant  shades — perhaps  no  more  for 
ever.  Their  last  day  at  school  has  come,  and  has 
brought,  alas  !  what  they  little  fancied — tears.  They 
linger  longer.  All  is  ready  ;  the  bustle  has  subsided, 
and  they  two  are  alone.  They  go  to  take  one  last 
look  at  the  old  room  ;  they  had  taken  two  before  ; 


OUR    PAPER.  233 

they  pass  into  the  chapel,  so  silent,  like  a  tomb,  on 
to  their  old  familiar  seat ;  a  forgotten  hook  lies  open 
upon  it,  they  catch  the  name  of  its  owner,  a  common 
friend  who  had  left  to  return  no  more. 

Tears  will  not  he  suppressed ;  they  struggle  up  ; 
and  who  would  stay  them  ?  They  turn  away  ;  they 
part,  hut  not  without  renewed  assurances  of  remem 
brance,  of  correspondence,  and  of  hope  that  they 
shall  meet ;  '  meet  in  happier  times,'  they  say. 
Mistaken  pair !  there  are  no  happier  times  this  side 
of  Heaven ! 


AND  here  is  that  monthly  roll-call — the  '  LETTER 
LIST.' 

Some  of  those,  no  douht,  whose  names  swell  that 
list,  are  dead.  Some  of  them  were  watching  from 
beds  of  pain,  this  morning's  light,  as  it  stole  timidly 
through  the  half-curtained  window  of  the  invalid's 
melancholy  room.  Some  of  them  have  gone  'on 
their  winding  way'  over  the  plains. 

In  that  column  are  letters  from  mothers  to  child 
ren,  wives  to  husbands,  lovers  to  lovers.  Some  of 
them  bear  black  seals,  and  they  who  unseal  them, 
will  unseal  too,  a  fountain  of  tears.  Some  of  them 


234  JAXUAJIY    AND   JUNE. 

have  been  waited  for,  and  wept  for,  and  asked  for, 
till  hearts  grew  sick  with  '  hope  deferred,'  and  now 
they  have  come,  at  last,  and  the  question  is,  where 
are  the  waiters  and  weepers  ? 

What  episodes  of  human  life  do  those  letters  con 
tain  !  How  much  of  love  and  hate,  of  wit  and  sen 
timent,  joy  and  grief !  How  many  spirits  for  many 
a  day  will  take  their  color  from  a  five  minutes'  read 
ing  !  Stern  Impatience,  timid  Love,  and  straightfor 
ward  Business  jostle  and  crowd  around  the  Delivery  ! 
There  is  poetry  there,  in  those  little  square,  triangu 
lar,  oblong,  blue,  white,  and  yellow  missives,  and 
history  and  biography  and  philosophy.  Sermons  and 
songs  are  turned  out  from  the  same  leathern  recep 
tacles. 

The  breaking  of  a  heart-string  costs  five  cents  ;  the 
answer  of  love  only  half  a  dime.  Joy  and  grief  are 
inventoried  alike  in  this  strange  schedule  of  human 
sorrowings  and  hopes. 


'  LAST  but  not  least,'  the  '  LEADER.'  Poor  Editor  ! 
He  has  none.  I  can  see  him  as  he  ponders  and  pon 
ders.  '  Is  the  country  safe  ?'  Then  there  is  nothing 
to  be  written  on  '  the  state  of  the  nation.'  Has  any 


DUE.    PAPER.  235 

great  man  fallen  with  the  sound  of  a  great  tree  in 
the  forest  ?  No,  and  Heaven  forbid  !  Has  any  great 
man  been  born  ?  Alas !  great  men  are  not  born, 
now-a-days,  and  if  they  were,  what  horoscope  have 
Editors,  wherewith  to  divine  it  ? 

Does  the  tempest  of  political  conflict  gather  ?  The 
sky  is  as  clear  as  the  great  bell  of  Moscow.  True, 
Revolutions  are  ripening  in  Europe,  but  the  harvest- 
song  is  not  yet  written.  True,  the  West  is  a  great 
country,  Americans  a  great  people,  but  these  truths 
'  have  served  their  time'  as  leaders,  and  must  needs 
rest. 

All  legitimate  themes  are  exhausted — the  mails 
bring  that  dread  of  the  fraternity,  '  nothing  new,'  and 
the  ink  dries  upon  the  waiting  pen. 

Were  it  not  the  second  day  of  January,  he  might 
talk  of  New  Year,  and  express  his  wishes  for  the 
prosperity  of  his  patrons  '  and  the  rest  of  mankind ;' 
but  that  will  not  do.  Time,  like  daily  papers,  re 
quires  but  twenty-four  hours  to  be  old,  and  every  body 
is  moving  as  steadily  on  to-day,  as  if  there  had  not 
been  a  '  New  Year '  in  a  half  century. 

Gloster  offered  a  kingdom  for  a  horse.  He  sym 
pathizes  with  him,  for  he  wants  "  a  leader"  He 
lays  down  the  pen,  looks  listlessly  out  at  the  window, 


236  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

and  lo  !  a  leader — one  of  the  world's  leaders,  and  in 
arms !  A  man,  '  bearded  like  the  pard,'  is  bearing 
along  the  street,  a  bit  of  a  boy,  be-plumed,  be-curled, 
be-plaided,  and  black-eyed,  the  man's  heart — the 
better  part  of  it — personified — himself  as  he  was — 
himself  as  he  ought  to  be. 

That  man !  why  a  regiment  could  not  drive  him, 
but  that  boy  can  guide  him.  Ah  !  he's  a  leader 
indeed.  He  fills  that  man's  heart  to-day — that  fac 
simile  of  his  hope,  is  in  all  his  present,  and  he  has 
no  future  without  him. 

The  world  is  filled  with  such  leaders, '  set'  in  types 
of  innocence  and  beauty,  '  displayed'  in  almost  every 
home,  and  '  illustrated'  by  almost  every  hearth-light. 
Worthy  are  they  of  the  '  small  caps'  they  wear.  For 
the  nonce,  they  are  his  leader.  God  bless  the 
leaders ! 


'  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE.  —  Receipts  —  wonders — 
thousands' — so  runs  the  column. 

Temples,  a  many  have  been  built ;  wreathed  Co 
rinthian  and  solemn  Gothic ;  simple  as  the  altar  of 
Eden's  second  son;  ornate  as  the  Pantheon  of  the 
Greek  ;  to  Divinities  supernal,  infernal,  and  '  mixed  ;' 


OUR.    PAPER.  237 

but  only  two,  and  those  of  Crystal,  to  the  mind- 
directed  HAND.  True,  the  'Hundred-handed'  had 
altars  and  offerings,  hut  then  BRIAREUS  was  headless. 
True,  HERCULES  was  a  god  of  muscles,  and  had  a 
hand  of  his  own,  hut  then  there  was  always  a  club 
in  it ;  it  was  a  rude  hand,  with  a  Savage  for  an 
owner.  True,  VULCAN  was  a  fellow  of  some  sinew 
but  his  corded  arm  was  always  red  with  the  thunder 
bolts  he  was  shaping.  True,  APOLLO  fingered  the 
harp  now  and  then,  and  twanged  the  silver  how,  but 
then,  the  one  he  was  heir  to,  and  the  other  he  found. 
Not  a  divinity  of  them  all,  could  have  made  either 
of  them,  Mythology  '  to  the  contrary  notwithstand 
ing.'  The  fact  is,  that  the  Apotheosis  of  the  Hand 
had  not  taken  place  in  those  days.  Not  a  hand  of 
them  all  could  have  knocked  at  the  closed  windows 
of  the  human  soul,  and  those  curtains  be  withdrawn 
at  the  signal ;  not  an  arm  of  them  all  could  have 
been  extended,  and  the  fallen  '  Daughters  of  Music ' 
be  lifted  from  the  dumb  dust,  into  a  world  trembling 
with  harmony. 

And  this  PALACE  OF  GLASS — what  is  it  but  a 
splendid  Retina,  whereon  are  stereotyped  myriad 
passages  from  the  eloquent  utterances  of  the  human 
hand  ?  Sweetest  song  could  not  wake  the  sleepers  in 


238  v  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

the  tombs  of  Paria ;  but  there,  around  them,  within 
those  walls  of  crystal,  they  stand  forth  in  the  day ; 
death  without  its  moulder,  life  without  its  motion, 
only  waiting  the  whisper  of  Omnipotence  to  breathe, 
and  come  down  from  their  pedestals,  and  utter  an 
IONIC  welcome  to  the  throng.  The  HAND  had  rolled 
away  the  stone  from  the  door  of  the  sepulchre,  and 
unravelled  with  the  graver  the  marble  shrouds,  and 
gently  beat  upon  the  breast  till  it  started  an  echo 
within,  and  the  muscles  rounded  anew,  and  the  bo 
som  was  like  a  billow,  and  the  lips  parted,  and  the 
WORLD  listened  with  their  eyes. 

Loftiest  eloquence — nay,  a  Prophet's  hallowed  lips, 
could  not  bid  the  temple-veil  of  Heaven  be  rent,  that 
the  great  fabric  woven  in  the  loom  of  GOD  should 
obey,  and  swing  slowly  aside.  But  there,  about 
them,  are  strewn  Telescopes,  those  lidless,  tearless, 
sleepless  Eyes,  the  HAND  has  burnished  and  brought 
near  that  dim  curtain,  and  looked  through  the 
Ioosely-w6ven  threads,  sparkling  out  with  stars,  like 
dews  upon  the  spider's  web,  and  seen  the  burning 
torches  that  blaze  round  the  base  of  the  Throne  ;  seen 
and  lived. 

And  so,  every  where  beneath  that  dome,  from  the 
tapestry,  fragrant  with  its  budded  flowers,  and  the 


OUR    PAPER.  239 

Dacca  lace  of  India,  the  '  woven  air'  of  the  Orient,  to 
the  magic  powder  that  quickens  the  dull  pulses  of 
Mother  Earth  into  glowing  thoughts  of  summer, 
and  the  thing  that  champs  the  steel  as  the  fawn 
crops  the  roses,  are  evidences  of  the  eloquence  of  the 
Hand  —  that  true  KALEIDOSCOPE  of  the  world, 
wherein  fragments  the  humblest,  and  material  the 
paltriest,  become  at  every  motion,  new  forms  of 
beauty,  new  combinations  of  power,  new  aids  for 
man,  in  this  HOLY  ALLIANCE  of  the  Head,  the  Heart, 
and  the  Hand. 


'  ANOTHER  COMET.'  So  our  Editor  has,  at  last, 
discovered  a  Comet  in  the — newspapers,  and  treats 
his  readers  to  a  dessert  of  horrors  possible  and  proba 
ble,  provided,  as  the  lawyers  say,  the  illustrious 
stranger  ungallantly  comes  in  collision  with  our  dear, 
dusky  Mother. 

What  these  hirsute  foreigners  are  doing  in  our  of 
fing,  no  body  precisely,  and  precisely  no  body,  knows, 
inasmuch  as  they  never  send  their  papers  ashore,  nor 
take  a  pilot  on  board,  nor  run  up  a  flag,  nor  fire  a 
salute,  nor  any  thing  else  usual  upon  the  high  seas. 

Our  Sun  with  his  glorious  retinue,  is  moving  among 
the  starry  isles,  in  this  great  Archipelago  of  God, 


240  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

towards  the  dim  north-west.  And  the  Sun  is  a  King, 
and  the  Planets  are  his  train.  And  who  knows  that 
these  comets  are  not  his  couriers,  sent  out  along  the 
great  highway  —  sent  out,  some  of  them,  before  we 
were  born  ;  some  of  them  when  time  began  —  return 
ing  now  and  then,  with  the  tidings,  '  The  way  is  clear  ! 
Move  on  !'  And  so  he  does  move  sublimely  on,  in  an 
orbit,  a  fragment  of  whose  arc,  no  human  intellect 
has  ever  grasped. 

"Wandering  they  may  be,  but  '  not  lost,'  for  their 
routes  and  times  —  are  they  not  all  recorded  in  the 
books  of  the  Admiralty  of  high  Heaven  ?  Then, 
here's  to 

2Tfjc  Neto  Graft  in  ti>c 


T\VAS  a  beautiful  night  on  a  beautiful  deep, 
And  the  man  at  the  helm  had  just  fallen  nsleep, 
And  the  watch  of  the  deck,  with  his  head  on  his  breast, 
Was  beginning  to  dream  that  another's  it  pressed, 
When  the  look-out  aloft  cried,  'A  sail!  ho!  a  sail!' 
And  the  question  and  answer  went  rattling  like  hail: 
'A  sail!  ho!  a  saill'     'Where  away?'     '  Xo'th-no'th-west  ?' 
'  Make  her  out  ?'     '  No,  your  honor  !'     The  din  drowned  the 
rest. 

There,  indeed,  is  the  stranger,  the  first  in  these  seas, 
Yet  she  drives  boldly  on,  in  the  teeth  of  the  breeze. 
Now  her  bows  to  the  breakers  she  steadily  turns  : 
Oh  !  how  brightly  the  light  of  her  binnacle  burns  I 
Not  a  signal  for  SATURN  this  Rover  has  given, 
No  salute  for  our  VENUS,  the  flag-star  of  heaven  ; 


OUR    PAPEK.  241 

Not  a  rag  or  a  ribbon  adorning  her  spar?, 
She  has  saucily  sailed  by  'the  red  planet  MARS;' 
She  has  '  doubled,'  triumphant,  the  Cape  of  the  SUN, 
And  the  sentinel  stars,  without  firing  a  gun  ! 
Now,  a  flag  at  the  fore  and  the  mizzen  unfurled, 
She  is  bearing  right  gallantly  down  on  the  world! 
'  Helm  a-port !'     '  Show  a  light!     She  will  run  us  aground !' 
'Fire    a   gun!'      'Bring   her   to!'     'Sail   a-hojTI     Whither 
bound  V 

'A vast  there!  ye  lubbers!     Leave  the  rudder  alone: 
'Tis  a  craft  'in  commission' — the  Admiral's  own; 
And  she  sails  Avith  sealed  orders,  unopened  as  yet, 
Though  her  anchors  she  weighed  before  Lucifer  set! 
Ah  !  she  sails  by  a  chart  no  draughtsman  could  make, 
"Where  each  cloud  that  can  trail,  and  each  wave  that  can 

break ; 

Where  each  planet  is  cruising,  each  star  is  at  rest, 
With  its  anchor  '  let  go'  in  the  blue  of  the  blest; 
Where  that  sparkling  flotilla,  the  Asteroids,  lie, 
Where  the  scarf  of  red  Morning  is  flung  on  the  sky; 
Where  the  breath  of  the  sparrow  is  staining  the  air — 
On  the  chart  that  she  bears,  you  will  find  them  all  there! 
Let  her  pass  on  in  peace  to  the  port  whence  she  came, 
With  her  trackings  of  fire,  and  her  streamers  of  flame ! 


BUT  there  is  a  brace  of  '  coffins'  in  the  candles ; 
the  back-stick  has  fallen  to  pieces  ;  the  frost  is  creep 
ing  up  the  window-panes ;  the  two  hands  of  the 
clock  are  pointing  the  way  to  Heaven  ;  the  paper  has 

rustled  down  to  my  feet ;  so — GOOD  NIGHT  ! 
11 


242  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 


0n 


THE  other  day  I  shot  into  town,  on  the  Michigan 
Southern  Railway  Train.  The  engine  was  well- 
named  —  FLYING  CLOUD  ;  for  a  flying  cloud  it  was, 
scudding  before  the  magical  tempest,  through  the 
woods  and  round  the  sweeping  shores  of  old  Michi 
gan. 

And  a  wonderful  thing  is  that  Engine,  when  we 
think  of  it  ;  the  emblem  and  exponent  of  the  hour  ; 
the  thing  of  iron  and  of  fire  ;  with  a  banner  of  light 
and  an  eye  like  a  star  ;  with  sinews  of  brass  and 
steel  ;  and  breathings  of  flame.  It  is  impatient  to 
go  forth  to  battle.  It  glides  upon  those  two  iron 
bars,  the  noblest  couplet  of  the  age,  from  winter  to 
summer  ;  from  day  to  night  ;  from  morning  to  even 
ing. 

It  gives  the  river  a  holiday,  and  drives  on  regard 
less  of  its  flow  ;  it  plunges  like  a  strand  of  thunder 
through  the  mountain  gorge  ;  it  pants  around  the 
wide  world.  Its  shafts  glitter  in  the  mines  ;  its  voice 
is  heard  in  the  shops  ;  its  banner  is  every  where.  It 
has  forced  its  way  to  the  far  hamlets  in  the  quiet 


RIDING    ON    A    RAIL.  243 

vales,  and  they  have  felt  the  thrill  and  the  jar  of  the 
great  world. 

Those  quiet,  little  nestling-places  where  we  were 
born,  are  fast  disappearing.  The  hill,  where  the 
long  summer  afternoons  and  we  used  to  lie,  and 
while  they  gilded  the  clouds  that  went  floating  by, 
we  glorified  them — that  hill  has  been  graded  down, 
and  the  cars  now  thunder  along,  where  breezes  swept 
before. 

The  grove,  where  first  we  learned  to  build  our 
castles  in  air,  where  every  mossy  tree  had  a  name 
and  a  memory,  some  Vandal  hand  has  felled  to  feed 
the  hungry  Engine. 

Sublunary  creation  goes  drifting  by  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour,  and  they  are  crowding  away  the  past,  with 
its  memories  and  its  hallowed  spots,  its  homes,  its 
altars,  and  its  groves,  to  make  room  for  the  future, 
that  comes  thundering  on  by  steam. 

Japhet  passed  a  life  in  search  of  his  father ;  the 
old  world  sought  a  new  route  to  the  Indies  ;  modern 
science  is  groping  'mid  blinding  snows  and  howling 
winters,  for  a  northwest  passage,  and  by  and  by,  some 
man,  wiser  than  Zimmerman,  will  be  seeking  a  place 
whose  echoes  were  never  wakened  by  the  snort  of 
eteam  ;  that  was  never  trenched  with  a  canal,  nor 


244  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

webbed  with  a  Telegraph— shall  seek,  but  never  find, 
till  that  house,  the  Grave-digger  tells  of,  shall  open  to 
receive  him. 

Iron  and  Fire  are  achieving  new  triumphs,  every 
day,  over  those  twin  foes  of  man,  Time  and  Space. 

Triumphs  ?  You  need  not  look  for  them  where 
men  are  binding  broad  continents  with  clampings  of 
iron.  You  can  find  them  in  the  veriest  trifles.  Here 
now,  they  tell  us,  a  bunch  of  flowers  was  sent  from 
New- York  in  an  exhausted:  case,  to  the  World's  Fair 
in  London,  and  after  a  lapse  of  three  months,  were  as 
beautiful  as  when  they  bloomed  in  the  Eden  of  the 
West.  This  statement  met  your  eyes  ;  you  passed  it 
over,  forgot  it.  But  here  is  the  same  fact,  in  another 
expression  :  Time  challenged  man  to  preserve  even 
the  flowers  unwithered,  and  from  month  to  month, 
they  had  faded  and  faded,  in  mockery  of  human 
power.  It  was  even  deemed  a  wonder  when  an 
American  lady  in  London  decked  her  hair  with  leaves 
flushed  with  the  sunset  of  the  year,  in  the  forests  of 
the  new  World — iciihered  leaves,  and  nothing  more. 
Space  interposed  his  waste  of  waters,  and  said,  remove 
those  flowers  from  their  parent  stems,  and  if  Time 
does  not  wither  them  at  first,  yet  you  shall  bear  them 
•  to  their  destination,  dead  flowers  at  last.  Man  ac- 


HIDING    ON    A    RAIL.  245 

cepted  that  challenge,  and  he  has  come  off  victor. 
Here  now  is  a  Bouquet  sent  from  the  new  world  to 
the  old — nothing  more — and  yet  how  many  hours  of 
thought,  and  years  of  toil,  were  necessary  that  it 
might  he  done.  How  the  chemist  sought  to  unweave 
the  blue  robe  of  air ;  how  the  philosopher  proved  it 
an  ethereal  sea,  and  manned  the  pumps  in  its  clear 
depths,  and  created  a  vacuum,  Nature's  old  abhor 
rence.  How  the  miner  delved,  the  furnace  glowed, 
the  blacksmith  wrought,  until  that  human  engine 
waved  round  the  steamer's  wheels  with  its  iron  wand. 
And  all  this,  before  that  floral  gem  plucked  from  the 
bosom  of  the  New  World,  all  warm  and  fragrant  with 
her  breath,  could  bloom  awhile  in  the  Crystal  Palace 
of  the  British  Isles.  Oh !  this  is  a  trifle  indeed,  but 
it  reveals  the  tide  and  turn  of  the  battle. 

It  is  wonderful  how  that  hissing,  panting,  shrieking 
thing  of  iron,  bears  us  all,  not  only  away  from  home, 
but  away  from  childhood,  memory,  and  yesterday. 

The  past  is  left  behind,  and  forgotten,  and  blushed 
for  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  The  past  is  dead  ;  '  Let 
the  dead  past  bury  its  dead.'  Homes  are  desecrated, 
deserted,  destroyed  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  They  were 
humble  and  old — there  are  better  to  come.  Many  a 
sweet  flower  of  memory  and  affection  is  trampled  and 


246  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

crushed  beneath  the  iron  heels  and  hurrying  feet  of 
an  iron  age  ;  but  what  are  flowers,  but  the  fancy- 
work  of  Nature's  holidays  ?  Childhood  with  its 
sweet  borderings  of  morning,  is  stricken  from  the 
calendar ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Childhood,  sweet 
pause,  as  it  is,  upon  the  threshold  of  life,  with  its 
foolish  memories  of  fond  mothers  and  doting  fathers, 
and  old  songs,  and  the  trees  that  bore  our  names,  and 
the  rooms  where  we  were  cradled,  and  the  cots  where 
we  were  born,  and  our  little  world  witliin  the  hori 
zon's  azure  ring  :  what  are  these  to  us  ?  The  trees 
are  withered  and  felled ;  the  roof-tree  is  mossy,  and 
humble  and  old ;  the  songs  are  mute  like  '  the  harp 
in  Tara's  halls  ;'  and  the  mothers,  God  grant  they  all 
are  not  dead  !  That  '  good  time  coming '  must  have 
been  sung,  at  last,  to  the  brink  of  being  born.  What 
have  we  to  do  with  trifles  such  as  these  ?  We  are 
men  and  women,  warriors  all ;  we  are  practical 
people,  wise  people,  wre  of  this  age,  in  the  midst  of 
the  battle  ;  ice  have  put  away  flowers,  and  fancies, 
and  memories,  and  the  past,  with  the  trinkets — the 
rattle  and  the  straw  that  pleased  us  then — among  the 
idle  rubbish  of  the  brain.  We  are  children  no  more. 
And  we  have  come  out,  like  the  Trojan  Prince  from 


R.IDINO    ON    A    RAIL.  247 

burning  Troy,  but  unlike  him,  we  have  left  our 
'  household  gods  '  behind  us. 

A  watch- word  is  abroad.  It  has  passed  from  leader 
to  leader,  and  down  and  along  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
world.  The  world  !  And  what  a  brigade  the  world 
makes  !  Here  is  no  paltry  centurion's  command,  but 
nations  by  battalions,  generations  by  squadrons.  How 
sublimely  they  are  moving  !  Away  on  in  the  van,  is 

'  Bright  Improvement  on  the  car  of  Time.' 

I  see  the  Lion  of  England,  and  the  Lilies  of  France, 
and  the  Stork  of  old  Holland,  and  the  Eagle  of  Co 
lumbia,  blazoned  upon  their  banners,  and  waving  in 
the  full  noon  of  the  age.  One  after  another,  tribes 
and  tongues  from  under  the  whole  Heaven,  have 
fallen  into  line.  The  turbaned  Turk  has  left  his  otto 
man  ;  the  islands  of  the  sea,  with  their  gentle  child 
ren,  have  taken  up  the  march ;  the  intermitting 
heart  of  old  Europe,  beats  a  salute,  like  the  sound  of 
a  stream  in  an  ancient  cave,  as  the  world  goes  by, 
and  even  '  the  drowsy  East '  has  looked  out  from  its 
windows  of  sunrise.  On  they  move  to  the  magic  of 
that  word  '  Progress.'  There  is  no  Rubicon,  but  the 
Caesars  are  not  extinct.  Scouts  boldly  plunge  into 
the  shadows  of  the  Future,  take  captive  mornings 


240  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

yet  to  be,  and  return  with  them  to  the  advance  guard 
of  this  mighty  armament,  and  so  it  is,  that  in  these 
days,  '  other  morns  have  risen  upon  mid-noons.' 

'  Close  up  !'  '  Close  up  !'  rings  along  the  nations. 
I  seem  to  hear  it  now,  as  in  all  languages  and  lands, 
the  word  is  speeding  on.  The  sturdy  Saxon  utters  it, 
and  its  echo  rings  like  '  England's  morning  drum-beat ' 
round  the  world.  The  Greek  amid  his  fallen  tem 
ples,  catches  and  prolongs  it ;  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
till  it  swells  like  a  sigh,  from  the  empty,  dusty  cradle 
of  old  Egypt.  On  moves  the  column,  through  the 
web  of  years,  like  the  shuttle  in  the  hand  of  the 
weaver. 

It  was  not  a  trumpet  that  thus  rallied  the  world, 
but  the  shrill  whistle  of  that  iron  Boatswain,  the 
Steam  Engine. 

And  there  it  stands,  at  once  the  creation  and  the 
rival  of  the  hand  ;  that  has  passed  on  with  its  freight 
of  humanity,  beyond  the  uttermost  station  ;  that,  with 
soulless  sinew,  makes  Mechanic  Man  a  supernume 
rary  ;  even  he,  who  '  laid  hands  '  upon  stubborn  iron, 
polished  steel  and  gleaming  brass,  till,  as  with  '  touch 
ethereal,'  the  metal  caught  the  '  cunning '  of  the  fin 
gers.  The  Steam  Engine  is  a  monster.  He  tortures 
the  wave  into  energy  and  strength  ;  he  breathes  out 


WINTER   NIGHTS.  249 

its  shrieking  spirit  in  a  cloud,  and  man,  the  being  with 
the  hand,  stands  appalled  in  the  presence  of  the 
genius  he  has  conjured.  Next  comes  the  CALORIC 
ENGINE,  a  thing  like  the  other,  dug  from  the  mine, 
and  shaped  by  the  altar-light  of  forges,  but  no  mon 
ster — not  it;  for  it  presses  hard  towards  humanity's 
self.  It  has  lungs  of  iron,  indeed,  and  no  delicate 
leaves  of  red  life ;  but  then  it  is  the  calm,  blue  air  WE 
breathe,  that  fills  its  ponderous  cylinders  ;  it  is  nearer 
human  than  its  panting  predecessor,  and  who  shall 
say,  not  a  more  formidable  rival  ? 


intu 


UGH  !  What  a  night  last  night  was,  to  be  sure — 
•the  waltz  of  the  wind  and  the  drifts. 

A  huge  snow-bank  of  a  cloud  lay  along  the  west  at 
sunset — an  aerial  Onalaska — and  white,  frosty  puffs 
came  out  of  a  clear,  blue  cleft  in  the  keen  north 
east. 

That  wind !  Didn't  it  love  snow,  and  hadn't  it 
queer  ways  of  its  own  ?  Now  it  came  from  beybnd 
the  wood,  sighing  and  sobbing  like  a  penitent.  Then 


250  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

it  struck  the  poor,  dumb,  leafless  trees,  till  they 
creaked  and  groaned  like  a  forest  of  masts  in  a  storm  ; 
but  it  was  tuning  up  the  mighty  harp  for  an  Anthem — 
nothing  more.  And  there's  the  deep,  pedal  bass  for 
you  :  feathery  pines,  stubborn  oaks,  swaying  elms 
and  whispering  hemlocks,  all  touched  into  a  grand 
harmony,  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 

Then  it  whistled  through  the  orchard,  like  the 
whirl  of  a  lash  ;  then  it  moaned  down  in  the  valley  ; 
then  it  roared  and  rumbled  over  the  chimney-tops, 
and  the  little,  timid  flames  lay  flat  upon  the  half- 
burned  wood,  till  it  passed ;  then  it  tried  the  doors 
and  rattled  the  windows,  and  shook  the  curtains,  and 
shrieked  round  the  corners  like  a  fiend,  and  moaned 
over  the  threshold  like  a  foundling,  and  piped  through 
the  key-hole  like  a  boatswain  ;  then  it  leaped  up  like 
a  giant,  and  tossed  the  old  butternut  like  a  fury,  and 
died  down  again  like  an  infant. 

Love  the  snow  ?  Indeed  it  did  !  It  bundled  it  in 
fence-corners,  to  see  how  it  would  look,  and  heaped  it 
in  the  highway,  and  took  it  up,  and  carried  it  a  little 
farther,  and  down  it  went  in  a  lull.  In  an  instant  it 
flew  with  it  over  the  top  of  the  house,  and  waltzed 
away  with  it  over  the  corn-field,  and  whirled  it  up 
against  the  old  barn,  and  sifted  it  through  on  to  the 


WINTER    NIGHTS.  251 

hay,  and  flung  it  over  the  wood-pile,  and  drifted  it  up 
on  to  the  window-sills.  And  the  hovels  it  crept  into, 
and  the  secrets  it  found  out,  that  the  neighbors  never 
knew  !  It  rustled  a  bed,  and  discovered  it  was 
nothing  but  straw.  It  drifted  down  upon  a  hearth, 
and  the  ashes  mocked  it,  so  cold  and  white  were  they. 
There  was  no  fire  there  !  And  it  found  an  infant 
asleep  upon  its  mother's  breast,  by  the  road-side,  and 
the  mother  was  dead  ;  and  it  froze  the  tear  upon  the 
baby's  cheek,  that  it  should  not  fall  to  the  earth,  and 
it  whirled  a  wreath  of  snow  over  the  twain,  and  it 
went  sighing  on  its  way,  like  one  who  would  not  be 
comforted. 

And  what  a  time  it  had  in  the  grave-yard,  furrow 
ing  it  all  over  with  white  billows,  filling  up  the  hol 
lows,  and  tumbling  this  way  and  that,  and  rocking 
the  willows,  and  swinging  in  the  old  maples.  Then 
up  it  went,  and  waked  the  old  church-bell  from  its 
slumbers,  till  there  came  out  of  the  belfry  a  solemn 
tone,  that  blended  with  the  blast  as  it  swept  by. 
Back  to  the  house  again,  and  how  it  shrieked  through 
the  garret,  and  rattled  the  loose  boards  upon  the 
gables,  and  puffed  out  the  smoke  in  the  fire-place, 
and  died  meekly  away,  and  sung  softly  through  the 
crevices,  and  was  still. 


252  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

Then  it  swept  out  of  the  "  Oak  opening,"  on  to  the 
Prairie,  and  flung  to  a  blind,  -where  one  lay  languish 
ing,  and  fanned  an  ember  that  had  fallen  into  a  cre 
vice  of  the  floor,  and  closed  a  door  that  had  stood 
ajar,  lest  some  body  might  eee,  and  blew  it  up  into  a 
brave  flame,  and  flared  it  this  way  and  that,  and  went 
crashing  on,  '  into  the  heavy  timber,'  and  was  gone. 

How  they  heaped  up  the  fire,  and  drew  out  the 
glowing  coals  from  beneath  the  fore-stick,  and  shook 
out  the  folds  of  the  curtains  before  the  wihdowe,  and 
snuffed  the  candles  anew,  and  made  it  as  cheerful  as 
they  could.  Festoons  of  dried  pumpkin  adorned  the 
ceiling  ;  skeins  of  yarn  decorated  the  window-frames  ; 
a  bowl  of  red-cheeked  apples,  and  a  pitcher  of  cider, 
stood  on  the  hearth  in  one  corner  ;  the  hired  man  was 
asleep  in  the  other  ;  the  wee  ones  were  cracking  but 
ternuts,  mother  was  knitting — she's  always  knit 
ting — and  father  was  dozing  over  '  the  state  of  the 
nation'  as  set  forth  in  the  'Republican  Times'  One 
of  the  boys  was  telling  an  incident  of  the  day  :  the 
hunters  had  been  out,  and  the  music  of  the  hounds 
had  been  ringing  all  day  through  the  woods.  They 
had  started  a  hapless  deer,  and  hard-pressed  by  the 
dogs,  panting  and  wearied,  it  was  rushing  by,  where 
the  hired  man  had  just  felled  a  tree,  when,  quick  as 


WINTER.    NIGHTS.  253 

thought,  it  turned,  tumbled  breathless  at  his  leet,  and 
with  a  mute  eloquence  that  passes  speech,  it  claimed 
his  protection.  The  baying  of  the  hounds  came 
nearer  and  nearer — there  it  lay,  supplicating  and 
helpless.  'And  what  did  JOE  do,  do  you  think,'  asked 
the  young  narrator,  growing  earnest  with  indigna 
tion — '  why,  he  just  killed  it  with  his  axe  !  He 
offered  me  a  haunch,  if  I  would  bring  it  home.  Won 
der  if  he  thought  I'd  touch  it.  Such  a  fellow  would 
rob  his  own  father  !' 

MACK,  curled  up  on  the  hearth,  was  propounding 
venerable  riddles,  the  heir-looms  of  childhood,  to  a 
weather-bound  school-mate  ;  such  as 'round  the  house 
and  round  the  house,  and  pop  behind  the  door.'  '  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  ?  I'll  bet  you  don't,'  triumph 
antly  exclaims  the  little  fellow. 

'  I  gueth,'  says  the  little  guest — '  I  gueth  it'th  the 
dark  !'  '  I  knew  you  couldn't.  Why,  it's  a  broom — 
that's  all, — I  gueth  it'th  the  dark !'  and  the  young 
propounder  laughed  outright  at  the  idea.  '  House  full, 
hole  full,  can't  catch  a  bowl-full !'  '  Oh,  I  know 
that !  It'th  thmoke  !' 

And  so,  with  childish  prattle  and  sweet  content,  the 
evening  went  away,  as  many  an  evening  has  done, 
never  to  return. 


254  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

The  circle  gradually  narrows  round  the  fire.  At 
last,  they  are  all  gone  but  you.  Even  LUCY  has  let 
out  her  '  intended,'  as  the  neighbors  call  him,  at  the 
front  door,  and  comes  into  the  kitchen  with  very  red 
cheeks,  and  shy  as  a  bird.  She  glances  at  the  clock, 
bounds  away  with  a  laugh,  and  now  you  hear  her 
light,  merry  step,  as  she  trips  up  stairs  to  the  music 
of  her  own  sweet  thoughts. 

You  open  the  hall  door ;  a  great  gust  puffs  out 
the  light,  but  by  the  flashes  of  the  fire,  you  see  two 
long,  narrow  drifts  of  fine  snow,  that  have  sifted 
through  the  crevices  round  the  outer  door. 

The  wind  has  sighed  itself  to  sleep,  like  a  tired 
child,  and  soft,  sweet  tones  of  music  seem  to  rise  and 
fall  in  the  snowy  air.  Now  receding,  now  approach 
ing  ;  now  dying,  now  swelling  like  a  great  JEolian. 
And  it  is  an  JEolian  :  that  mighty  harp  with  a  single 
string,  the  Telegraph.  And  the  fingers  of  the  wind, 
in  gentler  mood,  are  twanging  a  lullaby  to  the  storm. 
Oh !  mighty  Harper  is  the  Wind,  and  here  is  an 
instrument  worthy  of  its  handling :  an  orbit  wherein 
the  dumb  thunder-bolt  is  hurled  from  mart  to  mart ; 
a  bolt  that,  like  the  thunder  of  Sinai,  has  grown 
articulate.  It  is  the  pulse  of  the  world  ;  the  fibre  of 
universal  thought. 


WINTER    NIGHTS.  255 

There.,  now,  a  wanderer  from  the  land  of  gold  has 
returned  to  New- York.  It  is  morning.  The  clock  is 
on  the  stroke  of  eight.  Day  has  risen  from  the  wave, 
and  in  his  chariot  of  lire,  has  gone  on  towards  the 
west,  making  his  rounds  of  the  globe.  He  has  been 
gone  a  half  hour.  The  glad  word  conveying  the 
intelligence  of  that  wanderer's  arrival,  has  been  com 
mitted  to  the  telegraph.  On  it  glides  westward, 
westward  still.  Roll  on,  thou  glorious  chariot  of 
day !  The  courier  of  love  shall  o'ertake  thee  yet. 
Nearer,  nearer ;  the  day  and  those  words  are  side 
by  side.  The  sun  is  distanced — is  left  behind — and 
the  quivering  lightning  flutters  in  at  the  windows  on 
Main  Street,  like  some  sweet  bird 

'  Let  loose  iu  eastern  skies.' 

And  it  is  not  yet  eight  of  the  clock  in  La  Porte ! 
So  a  few  humble,  loving  syllables,  that  are  nothing 
to  you  or  to  me,  lead  the  great  sun  in  his  journey 
round  the  world. 


THE  Child- world,  in  this  quarter,  is  in  '  an  active 
state  of  unrest.'  The  school  in  '  the  Quaker  neigh 
borhood  '  have  sent  a  challenge,  in  due  form,  to  this 


256  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

district,  to  spell ;  so,  to-night,  '  the  war  of  words'  is  to 
be  waged,  in  the  white  school -house  on  the  hill. 

There  is  a  great  overhauling  of  old  '  Elementaries,' 
and  a  wonderful  furbishing  up  of  frontispieces,  and 
turning  over  of  clean  collars,  preparatory  to  the  grand 
melee. 

SPELLING  SCHOOLS  !  Have  you  forgotten  them  ? 
When,  from  all  the  region  round  ahout,  they  gathered 
into  the  old  log  school-house,  with  its  huge  fireplace, 
that  yawned  like  the  main  entrance  to  Avernus. 
How  the  sleigh-bells — the  old-fashioned  bells,  big  in 
the  middle  of  the  string,  and  growing  '  small  by 
degrees  and  beautifully  less '  towards  the  broad,  brass 
buckle — chimed,  in  every  direction,  long  before  night — 
the  gathering  of  the  clans.  There  came  one  school, 
'  the  Master ' — give  him  a  capital  M,  for  he  is  entitled 
to  it — Master  and  all,  bundled  into  one  huge,  red, 
double  sleigh,  strown  with  an  abundance  of  straw, 
and  tucked  up  like  a  Christmas  pie,  with  a  half  score 
of  buffalo  robes.  There  half  a  dozen  '  cutters,'  each 
with  its  young  man  and  maiden,  they  two  and  no 
more.  And  there,  again,  a  pair  of  jumpers,  mount 
ing  a  great,  outlandish-looking  bin,  heaped  up, 
pressed  down  and  running  over,  Scripture  measure, 
with  small  collections  of  humanity,  picked  up  en 


WINTER    NIGHTS.  257 

route,  from  a  great  many  homes,  and  all  as  merry  as 
kittens  in  a  basket  of  wool.  And  tlie  bright  eyes, 
and  ripe,  red  lips,  that  one  caught  a  glimpse  of, 
beneath  those  pink-lined,  quilted  hoods,  and  the  sil 
very  laughs  that  escaped  from  the  woolen  mufflers 
and  fur  tippets  they  wore  then — who  does  not  remem 
ber  ? — who  can  ever  forget  them  ? 

The  school  house  destined  to  be  the  arena  for  the 
conflict,  has  been  swept  and  garnished ;  boughs  of 
evergreen  adorn  the  smoke-stained  and  battered  walls. 
The  little  pellets  of  chewed  paper  have  been  all 
swept  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  two  pails  of  water 
have  been  brought  from  the  spring,  and  set  on  the 
bench  in  the  entry,  with  the  immemorial  tin-cup — 
a  wise  provision  indeed,  for  warm  work  is  that 
spelling ! 

The  '  big  boys'  have  fanned  and  replenished  the 
fire,  till  the  old  chimney  fairly  jars  with  the  roaring 
flames,  and  the  sparks  fly  out  of  the  top,  like  a  fur 
nace — the  oriflamme  of  the  battle. 

The  two  '  Masters'  are  there  ;  the  two  schools  are 
there  ;  and  such  a  hum,  and  such  a  moving  to  and 
fro  !  Will  they  swarm  ? 

The  oaken  ferule  comes  down  upon  the  desk  with 
emphasis.  What  the  roll  of  the  drum  is  to  armies, 


258  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

that,   the   '  ruler '  is  to  this  whispering,  laughing, 
young  troop. 

The  challenged  are  ranged  on  one  side  of  the 
house ;  the  challengers  on  the  other.  Back  seats, 
middle  seats,  low,  front  seats,  all  filled.  Some  of  the 
fathers  and  grandfathers,  who  could,  no  doubt,  upon 
occasion, 

'  Shoulder  the  crutch,  and  show  how  fields  were  won,' 

occupy  the  bench  of  honor  near  the  desk. 

Now  for  the  preliminaries  :  the  reputed  best  speller 
on  each  side  '  chooses.'  '  Susan  Brown  !'  Outcomes 
a  round-eyed  little  creature,  blushing  like  a  peony. 
Who'd  have  thought  it !  Such  a  little  thing,  and 
chosen  first. 

'  Moses  Jones !'  Out  comes  Moses,  an  awkward 
fellow,  with  a  shock  of  red  hair,  shockingly  har 
vested,  surmounting  his  broad  brow.  The  girls  laugh 
at  him,  but  what  he  doesn't  know  in  the  '  Element 
ary,'  isn't  worth  knowing. 

'  Jane  Murray !'  Out  trips  Jane,  fluttered  as  a 
bride,  and  takes  her  place  next  to  the  caller.  She's 
a  pretty  girl,  but  a  sorry  speller.  Don't  you  hear  the 
whispers  round  the  house  ?  '  Why,  that's  John's 
sweetheart.'  John  is  the  leader,  and  a  battle  lost 


WINTER   NIGHTS.  259 

with  Jane  by  his  side,  would  he  sweeter  than  a  vic 
tory  won,  without  her. 

And  so  they  go  on,  '  calling  names,'  until  five  or 
six  champions  stand  forth  ready  to  do  battle,  and  the 
contest  is  fairly  begun. 

Down  goes  one  after  another,  as  words  of  three 
syllables  are  followed  by  those  of  four,  and  these 
again,  by  words  of  similar  pronunciation  and  divers 
significations,  until  only  Moses  and  Susan  remain. 

The  spelling-book  has  been  exhausted,  yet  there 
they  stand.  Dictionaries  are  turned  over — memories 
are  ransacked,  for 

'  Words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound,' 

until,  by  and  by,  Moses  comes  down  like  a  tree,  and 
Susan  flutters  there  still,  like  a  little  leaf  aloft,  that 
the  frost  and  the  fall  have  forgotten. 

Polysyllable  follows  polysyllable,  and  by  and  by 
Susan  hesitates  just  a  breath  or  two,  and  twenty 
tongues  are  working  their  way  through  the  labyrinth 
of  letters  in  a  twinkling.  Little  Susan  sinks  into  the 
chink  left  for  her  on  the  crowded  seat,  and  there  is  a 
lull  in  the  battle. 

Then,  they  all  stand  in  solid  phalanx  by  schools, 
and  the  struggle  is,  to  spell  each  other  down.  And 


260  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

down  they  go,  like  leaves  in  winter  weather,  and  the 
victory  is  declared  for  our  District,  and  the  school  is 
'  dismissed.' 

Then  comes  the  hurrying  and  bundling,  the  whis 
pering  and  glancing,  the  pairing  off  and  the  tumbling 
in.  There  are  hearts  that  nutter  and  hearts  that 
ache  ;  '  mittens'  that  are  not  worn,  secret  hopes  that 
are  not  realized,  and  fond  looks  that  are  not  returned. 
There  is  a  jingling  among  the  bells  at  the  door ;  one 
after  another  the  sleighs  dash  up,  receive  their  nest 
ling  freight,  and  are  gone. 

Our  Master  covers  the  fire,  and  snufis  out  the  can 
dles — don't  you  remember  how  daintily  he  used  to 
pinch  the  smoking  wicks,  with  fore-finger  and  thumb, 
and  then  thrust  each  hapless  luminary,  head  first, 
into  the  tin  socket  ? — and  we  wait  for  him. 

The  bells  ring,  faintly  in  the  woods,  over  the  hill, 
in  the  valley.  They  are  gone.  The  school  house  is 
dark  and  tenantless,  and  we  are  alone  with  the  night. 

Merry,  care-free  company  !  Some  of  them  are 
sorrowing,  some  are  dead,  and  all,  I  fear,  are  changed. 
SPELL  !  Ah !  the  '  spell'  that  has  come  over  that 
crowd  of  young  dreamers — over  you,  over  me — will 
it  ever,  ever  be  dissolved  ?  In  '  the  white  radiance 
of  Eternity !' 


WINTER    NIGHTS.  261 

How,  like  the  shadow  upon  the  dial,  thought  is 
ever  returning  to  the  place  of  beginning  !  Where  we 
first  began  to  live — where  we  first  began  to  love  ;  to 
the  trysting-place  and  the  homestead,  the  play-ground 
aud  the  grave-yard: 

The  Children  of  the  Sun,  where'er  they  roam, 
Deem  that  the  Gods  to  them,  this  boon  have  given, 
That  each  freed  spirit  seeks  its  native  home, 
And  wings  from  thence,  a  speedier  flight  to  Heaven. 

As  some  dim  fountain — when  day's  golden  chain 
Leads  captive,  earth — unfolds  its  cloudy  wings, 
Sublimely  seeks  its  native  heaven  again, 
And  o'er  the  sun,  its  rainbow  glory  flings ; 

So  when  THY  memory  beams  upon  the  thought, 
Its  pinions  tremble  for  the  homeward  flight ; 
O'er  many  a  hallowed,  many  a  heavenly  spot, 
It  lingers  long — 'tis  lingering  there  to-night. 

It  were  not  strange,  if  'neath  some  sacred  shade, 
A  tear  should  glitter  on  thy  billowed  breast ; 
It  were  not  strange,  if  o'er  the  buried  dead, 
Some  heart  should  sigh,  Here  let  me  be  at  rest  1 

Home !  ever  Home !     How  glides  the  bird-like  thought 
Back  to  the  roof-tree  where  it  plumed  its  wing, 
Ere  tears  had  stained  it,  or  the  tempest  caught 
And  strown  the  bower,  where  first  it  learned  to  sing. 


262  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 


3Uu    fast    0f    ®n\. 

WHILE  I  write,  a  strange,  sad  scene  is  being  enacted, 
one  which  hangs  over  the  mind,  as  I  think  of  it,  a 
sombre  cloud  of  thought.  A  noble  being,  in  the  full 
maturity  of  life,  is  nearing  the  last  hours  of  his  exist 
ence,  and  from  present  indications,  '  by  the  turn  of 
the  tide,'  to-night,  he  will  cease  to  be  a  mariner  of 
life. 

To  see  the  strong  limbs  settle  into  the  repose  of 
death,  is  sad  at  any  time,  but  there  are  circumstances 
connected  with  this,  which  invest  it  with  an  unwonted 
and  melancholy  interest. 

He  is  the  last  of  TEN,  who,  within  a  single  year, 
have  died,  one  after  another,  and  but  a  little  while — 
a  few  days  apart !  I  remember  them  all ;  I  knew 
them  well,  and  many  a  day  have  I  passed  with  them 
during  this  eventful  year.  First  (I  will  not  mention 
names,)  an  old  man  died  ;  but  his  locks  were  white, 
and  his  pulses  chilled,  and  the  tears  of  the  mourners 
fell  slow  and  freezingly  round  the  shallow  grave. 
The  old,  like  withered  leaves,  hold  to  life  by  a  frail 
tenure  :  there  comes  a  husky  breath,  and  they  are 


THE   LAST   OF    TEN.  263 

gone.  Next  went  his  brother,  younger  than  he,  a 
man  of  a  cold,  stern  spirit ;  but  he  had  friends — and 
•  who  has  not  ? — and  so  he  died.  And  then  a  change 
came  over  a  younger  member  of  the  family — a  wild, 
boisterous,  dashing  Wade,  the  musician  of  the  group. 
He  would  have  made  a  '  King's  Trumpeter ;'  and 
what  blasts  I  have  heard  him  sound  !  Such  blasts 
as  Scott  said  '  were  worth  a  thousand  men.'  And  I 
have  heard  him  play  dirges  too.  They  played  for 
him  at  last.  '  The  daughters  of  music  are  brought 
low,'  and  he  sleeps.  His  gentle  sisters  three,  as  if 
they  knew  the  way  he  led,  by  the  tones  of  his  spirit- 
bugle,  followed  him,  one  after  one. 

0  hark !  0  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going! 
0  sweet  and  fur,  from  cliff  and  star, 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  1 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

'  O  lore,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill,  or  field  or  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wide  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying.' 

The  youngest  went  first ;  innocence  knows  no  fear, 
and  she  passed  away  smiling — a  gentle  creature,  full 


264  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

of  laughter  and  tears.  The  second  and  third — how 
well  do  I  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  them  ! 
They  were  dressed  in  flower-broidered  robes,  flowers 
in  their  hair,  the  tint  of  flowers  upon  their  cheeks, 
and  the  fragrance  of  flowers  in  their  breath.  They 
wore  broidered  girdles  of  green,  and  they  were  all  of 
a  flutter,  going  to  some  fete.  But  they  have  gone 
together,  and  almost  hand  in  hand,  where  flowers 
bloom  all  the  year  long,  and  where  it  is  one  grand 
fete  from  June  to  June  again. 

Then  came  one  whom  the  heart  aches  to  think  of ; 
a  magnificent  being,  fully  rounded  into  womanhood. 
With  eyes  that  looked  into  the  soul,  as  warm,  and 
clear,  and  noble  as  a  summer  Heaven  ;  with  a  voice 
full  of  sweetest  music,  and  with  grace  in  every  motion. 
Living,  who  could  help  loving  her  ? — and  dying,  who 
could  help  weeping  for  her  ? — I  am  not  ashamed  to  say 
it,  I  wept ;  I  am  not  afraid  to  tell  it,  Nature  wept ;  I 
am  not  wild  to  fancy  it,  Heaven  smiled,  when  she 
awaited  admission  on  its  star-lighted  threshold. 

But  I  haven't  the  heart  to  recall  them  all  to-day 
Enough  to  say,  they  are  dead ;  the  tenth  is  now 
dying,  and  they  will  all  be  a  family  in  Heaven. 
Who  is  there  among  my  readers  to  give  a  tear  or  a 
thought  to  poor,  departing  OCTOBER  ? 


SHADOWS   WE   ARE.  265 

SHADOWS  that  out-live  the  sunshine,  daguerreotypes 
are.  I  have  heen  looking  at  one  to-night — a  picture 
of  the  dead.  Dead  ?  Oh,  no  ! — that  cannot  be  dead 
that  we  cannot  forget. 

Well  do  I  remember  when  it  was  taken — a  tearful 
April  day ;  showers  came  out  of  the  rainbows,  and 
sunshine  broke  out  of  the  clouds.  Fitting  emblem  of 
her  little  life,  and  yours,  and  mine.  They  arrayed 
her  in  a  white  robe,  folded  her  white  hands  upon  her 
breast,  wreathed  white  roses  in  her  hair,  and  made 
her  as  ready  as  they  could  for  the  angels  that  waited 
without.  There  she  lay,  cold  and  motionless,  but 
none  of  us  could  make  her  dead.  Again  and  again, 
did  I  bring  a  mirror  close  to  those  sealed  lips ;  once 
or  twice,  I  fancied  its  surface  was  a  little  dimmed, 
but  it  was  not  so.  There  was  the  dear,  pale  face, 
nothing  more.  That  little  cloud  of  life  had  floated 
away  for  ever.  Sleep  and  his  brother  had  stood 
beside  the  couch,  to  claim  her  as  she  lay.  Both  wron 
her,  for  she  slept  the  sleep  of  death. 

Oh,  she  was  lovely !  and  as  those  fair  lineaments 
settled  to  their  last  repose,  it  made  the  heart  ache  and 
the  eye  dim  to  look  at  them.  How  much  there  is  in 
the  thought,  we  shall  see  her  like  no  more  ;  mingled 


266  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

with  her  kindred  elements,  her  dust  shall  be  strewn 
to  the  winds.  Her  image  is  pictured  now  upon  the 
heart,  but  hearts  may  break,  memory  be  dimmed  with 
tears  and  time.  Had  we  but  thought  of  this,  the 
artist  should  have  made  her  live  upon  his  canvass. 
Such  beauty  should  not  quite  depart.  Too  late — too 
late! 

Far  over  the  waters,  in  sunny  France,  in  a  labora 
tory,  a  workman  is  bending  over  a  crucible  and  a  fur 
nace.  Begrimmed  with  toil,  nameless,  the  utterer  of 
a  language  not  our  own.  What  is  he  to  us,  ^r  we  to 
him  ?  Nothing. 

It  was  morning,  and  through  the  half-drawn  cur 
tain,  round  that  bed  of  death,  a  bright  ray  of  sun 
shine  streamed  full  upon  the  face  of  the  dead,  and 
grew  pale — and  well  it  might,  for  it  was  in  the 
presence  of  Him  who  shall  one  day  bid  the  sun  put 
off  his  robes  of  glory  for  the  garment  of  sackcloth — 
an  instant  fell,  and  then  was  flying  out  again  into  the 
free,  glad  gush  of  morning,  and  the  music  of  the 
woods  and  the  birds. 

A  polished  plate — a  magical  mirror,  just  stayed  it 
in  its  flight,  and  ere  it  fled,  it  left  thereon  the  sweet 
memory  it  was  flying  with — the  picture  of  the  Dead. 
The  eyes  were  closed,  'tis  true,  but  then  she  looked  so 


TIME    INDICTED.  267 

sweetly  sleeping  there.  Many  times  since,  be  sure, 
it  has  been  bedewed  with  tears ;  many  times  since, 
have  lips  been  pressed  upon  it. 

Radiant  being  !  beautiful  MAY  !  She  flung  but  one 
shadow,  and  that  only,  when  she  died. 

You  have  seen,  sometimes,  in  a  June  morning, 
when  the  birds  were  in  song  and  the  breezes  in  tune, 
a  sentinel  star,  that  had  out-watched  the  night, 
lingering  on  the  bright  threshold  of  day.  You  have 
watched  it  as  it  wavered  and  grew  dim  ;  as  it  bright 
ened  and  blushed  ;  as  it  paled  into  pearl,  receded,  and 
died. 

The  sky  was  all  beauty,  the  world  was  all  bliss — 
Oh!  who  would  not  pray  for  an  ending  like  this? 
So  my  beautiful  May  passed  away  from  life's  even  ; 
So  the  blush  of  her  being  was  blended  with  heaven; 
So  the  bird  of  my  bosom  fluttered  up  to  the  dawn — 
A  window  was  opened — my  darling  was  gone  ! 
A  truant  from  time,  from  tears,  and  from  sin, 
For  the  au^el  on  watch  took  the  wanderer  in. 


WHAT  an  indictment  could  be  '  found '  against 
Time,  if  only  he  came  within  the  jurisdiction  of  mor 
tals.  'Count 'after  'count' — how  they  follow  one 
another. 

Time  has  robbed  youth  of  its  step  of  lightness,  and 


208  JANUARY   AN'D   JUNE. 

its  locks  of  gold,  and  its  bounding  heart  of  bliss.  He 
has  lifted  Heaven  away  from  us,  as  we  have  stood  up 
in  the  full  stature  of  men  ;  for  to  this  the  poet  testi 
fied,  when  he  said, 

'  It  gives  me  little  joy, 
To  think  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven, 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy.' 

He  has  robbed  manhood  of  its  form  erect,  its  eagle 
look,  and  its  soldier  tread.  He  has  stolen  beauty, 
line  after  line,  and  light  after  light,  from  the  lips,  the 
cheek,  the  brow  of  loveliness. 

He  has  chilled  the  warmest  pulses,  dimmed  the 
brightest  visions,  paralyzed  the  strongest  hand,  that 
ever  throbbed  with  sympathetic  pain,  or  swept  the 
dismal  horizon  of  human  sorrow,  or  struck  for  God 
and  the  right. 

He  has  effaced  the  inscriptions  that  love  and 
memory  have  traced. 

He  has  shrivelled  and  obliterated  our  parchments. 

He  has  struck  from  the  roll,  names  that  were  born 
to  a  good  hope  of  immortality. 

He  has  crumbled  the  walls  of  our  old  homesteads. 

He  has  '  changed '  the  faces  of  our  old  friends. 

He  has  made  life  too  long  for  our  hopes,  but  too 
brief  for  our  deeds. 


TIME    CONDEMNED.  2G(J 

He  has  substituted  the  new  for  the  old  ;  the  things 
of  to-day  for  the  things  of  yesterday  arid  for  ever. 

AND  how  have  the  architect,  the  painter,  and  the 
poet  been  battling  against  grim,  relentless  Time  ? 
Go  to  Bunker's  Hill,  and  ask  them,  '  What  build  ye 
now  ?'  and  they  answer, '  Here  swelled  the  first  strain 
of  Liberty's  Anthem — here  Warren  fell — here  one 
day  in  June,  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago — why  it 
is  Bunker  Hill  Monument !'  So,  indeed,  it  is  ;  but 
look  at  that  mighty  shaft,  as  it  sublimely  swings  to 
the  rising  and  setting  sun.  I  tell  you,  it  is  more. 
You  sec  there  a,  fortress,  a  stronghold  against  Time. 
'  How  the  years  drift  over  the  world,'  they  said — they 
that  stood  around  that  crimsoned  height.  '  Those 
years  will  sweep  the  red  record  of  the  deed  away.' 
TIME  will  do  it,  and  the  memory  of  that  grand  act 
shall  be  struck  from  the  drama  of  our  race.  Not  so — 
not  so.  We  will  pile  up  the  granite  ;  we  will  stereo- 
typo  the  story ;  we  will  emboss  it  upon  the  page  of 
the  globe ;  we  will  build  a  citadel — aye,  that's  the 
word  ! — a  CITADEL  against  Time.  Is  it  to  last  an 
hundred  years  ?  Then  for  an  hundred  years,  we'll 
stand  the  siege  of  Time.  Five  hundred  ?  The  gar 
rison  of  memories  shall  be  there  still !  Storm  on,  all- 


270  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

devastating  Time,  we'll  stay  thee  here.  Those  stone — 
ah  !  lay  them  well !  The  clink  of  those  trowels  is  a 
sublime  defiance  to  him,  to  whom  name  and  fame 
have  been,  in  other  days,  as  wrecks  and  weeds  to  the 
gray  Atlantic. 

In,  from  under  the  clear  blue  sky  of  heaven,  \ve 
r;ome  to  an  humble  chamber,  guiltless  of  ornament. 
Therein  is  a  man,  and  he  bends  over  a  canvass.  The 
light  of  the  setting  sun  plays  in  a  halo  round  his  head, 
and  falls  upon  a  picture.  Tis  of  a  dwelling,  an 
humble  dwelling,  surrounded  by  old  trees,  and  a  hill 
rising  in  the  distance,  and  a  stream  low  murmuring 
in  the  fore-ground.  His  pencil  deepens  this  shadow 
and  that  tint.  The  landscape  is  almost  finished. 
'  What  do  you  here  ?'  we  ask.  A  light  is  kindled  in  his 
eye  ;  a  glow  is  on  his  pale  cheek  ;  he  dashes  his  pen 
cil  upon  the  palette,  as  he  exultingly  exclaims,  '  I 
have  recalled  it  all !  There  is  the  veiy  tree  from 
whose  pendent  limbs  I  swung,  years  and  years  ago  ; 
and  there  is  the  window  through  whose  little  blue 
panes,  day  was  wont  to  break  upon  my  childish  eyes, 
and  there  the  stream  where  drifted  my  mimic  sail, 
and  there  the  hill  where  whirled  my  mimic  mill. 
And  there  the  roof — aye  !  with  the  very  moss  upon 
its  northern  cave.- — beneath  which  I  loved  my  first 


THE    PAST    IS    V.'ITII    US    STILL.  271 

love  and  thought  my  first  thought.  All  there  ! — a 
transcript  from  memory.  The  old  house,  or  so  they 
tell  me,  is  dismantled ;  the  roof  lets  in  the  stars ; 
weeds  have  sprung  up  in  the  hearth,  and  the  grave 
yard  is  more  furrowed  than  ever.  Let  it  crumble ; 
let  its  dust  be  strown  to  the  winds,  but  its  image  shall 
not  fade.  Time  !  do  thy  work  ;  I  have  thee  now  ! 
Efface  the  picture  of  that  house  from  memory — it 
shall  not  be  "  lost  to  sight."  And  ere  thy  fingers 
shall  dim  that  canvass,  I  shall  have  gone  beyond  thy 
potent  sweep.'  And  well  does  he  say,  '  I  have  tri 
umphed  over  Time ;'  and  well  does  he  exult,  that 
with  the  noiseless  weapon  of  the  pencil,  he  has  van 
quished  the  conqueror  of  kings. 

C*ijc    iJast    is    to  it  |)    us    still. 

"When  SCIENCE  grasped  a  filmy  thread  of  light, 

That  dimly  floated  in  the  empty  air, 
And  dared  to  draw  the  silver  woof  of  night, 

Until  she  saw  a  BTAR  was  clinging  there, 
She  trembled  at  the  vision  she  had  seen  : 
It  only  told  her  that  a  star  had  been  I 

That  starry  tress  had  faded  in  its  flight, 

(So  long  it  wandered  through  the  blue  abysa,) 

Before  it  met  a  mortal's  startled  sight. 

"While  yet  it  journeyed  'twixt  that  world  and  this, 

Perhaps  some  hand  had  borne  the  wondrous  urn, 

Beyond  the  range  of  human  thought's  return ; 


272  JANUARY    AND    JU2VJS 

Perhaps  extinguished — e'en  the  stars  do  die — 
Ere  Heaven  unfolded  to  her  earnest  eye. 

Tilings  are  around  us  that  have  ceased  to  be ; 

And  starry  hopes,  extinguish'd  long  ago, 
Still  link  us  to  the  past.     Who  would  be  free, 

Or  give  that  tearful  past  for  all  we  know, 
Or  dream,  of  bliss  or  blessing  yet  to  come? 
All,  ALL  is  mortal,  till  it  reach  the  tomb ! 
And  all  unblest  until  it  find  its  wings! 

That  last  year's  Heaven  of  stars,  oh !  who  would  give 
For  aught  beside  ?     Filled  with  translated  things, 

Too  bright  to  die,  too  beautiful  to  live. 


t 


OLD-FASHIONED  Mothers  have  nearly  all  passed 
away  with  the  hlue  check  and  homespun  woolen  of  a 
simpler  but  purer  time.  Here  and  there  one  remains, 
truly  '  accomplished,'  in  heart  and  life,  for  the  sphere 
of  home. 

Old-fashioned  mothers  —  God  bless  them!  —  who 
followed  us  with  heart  and  prayer,  all  over  the 
world — lived  in  our  lives  and  sorrowed  in  our  griefs  : 
who  knew  more  about  patching  than  poetry  ;  spoke 
no  dialect  but  that  of  love  ;  never  preached  nor  wan 
dered  ;  '  made  melody  with  their  hearts ;'  and  sent 


THE    OLD-FASHIOXED    MOTHER.  273 

forth  no  books  but  living  volumes,  that  honored  their 
authors  and  blessed  the  world. 

If  woman  have  a  broader  mission  now,  in  Heaven's 
name,  let  her  fulfil  it !  If  she  have  aught  to  sing, 
like  the  daughters  of  Judah,  let  her  Tsit  down  by  the 
waters  of  Babel,  and  the  world  shall  weep ;  like 
Miriam,  let  her  triumph-strain  float  gloriously  over 
crushed  but  giant  wrong,  and  the  world  shall  hear ; 
but  let  the  triumph  and  lament  issue,  as  did  the  ora 
cles  of  old,  from  behind  the  veil  that  cannot  be  rent : 
the  '  innor  temple  '  of  sacred  Home. 

Within  it,  should  be  enshrined  the  divinity  of  the 
place.  Here  and  here  only,  would  we  find  woman  ; 
here  imprison  her — imprison  her  ?  Aye,  as  the  light 
house  ray,  that  flows  out,  pure  as  an  angel's  pulses, 
into  the  night  and  darkness  of  the  world — a  star 
beneath  the  cloud;  but  brightest  there — wannest 
there — always  there,  where  Heaven  did  kindle  it, 
within  the  precinct,  the  very  altar-place  of  home  ! 

It  is  related  of  Madame  Lucciola,  a  renowned  vocal 
ist,  that  she  ruined  a  splendid  tenor  voice  by  her 
efforts  to  imitate  male  singing.  Many  a  sweet  voice 
and  gentle  influence  in  the  social  harmony,  has  been 
lost  to  the  world  in  the  same  manner.  There  is  no 
thing  more  potent  than  woman's  voice,  if  heard,  not 
12* 


274  JANUARY    AND    JUNE. 

in  the  field,  or  the  forum,  but  at  home.  The  song 
bird  of  Eastern  story,  borne  from  its  native  isle,  grew 
dumb  and  languished.  Seldom  did  it  sing,  and  only 
when  it  saw  a  dweller  from  its  distant  land,  or  to  its 
drowsy  perch  there  came  a  tone,  heard  long  ago  in 
its  own  woods.  So  with  the  song  that  woman  sings  ; 
best  heard  within  Home's  sacred  temple.  Elsewhere, 
a  trumpet-tone — perhaps  a  clarion-cry,  but  the  lute- 
like  voice  has  fled  :  the '  mezzo-soprano '  is  lost  in  the 
discords  of  earth. 

The  old  homestead  !  I  wish  I  could  paint  it  for 
you,  as  it  is — no,  no,  I  dare  not  say,  as  it  is — as  it  was; 
that  we  could  go  together,  to-night,  from  room  to 
room  ;  sit  by  the  old  hearth,  round  which  that  circle 
of  light  and  love  once  swept,  and  there  linger,  till  all 
those  simpler,  purer  times  returned,  and  we  should 
grow  young  again. 

And  how  can  we  leave  that  spot,  without  remem 
bering  one  form,  that  occupied,  in  days  gone  by,  '  the 
old  arm-chair  :'  that  old-fashioned  MOTHER  ? — one  in 
all  the  world,  the  law  of  whose  life  was  love ;  one 
who  was  the  divinity  of  our  infancy,  and  the  sacred 
presence  in  the  shrine  of  our  first  earthly  idolatry ; 
one  whose  heart  is  far  below  the  frosts  that  gather  so 
thickly  on  her  brow ;  one  to  whom  we  never  grow 


THE    OLD-FASHIONED    MOTHER.  275 

old,  but,  in  '  the  plumed  troop  '  or  the  grave  council, 
are  children  still ;  one  who  welcomed  us  coming, 
blest  us  going,  and  never  forgets  us — never  ! 

And  when,  in  some  closet,  some  drawer,  some  cor 
ner,  she  finds  a  garment  or  a  toy  that  once  was  yours, 
how  does  she  weep,  as  she  thinks  you  may  be  suffer 
ing  or  sad. 

And  when  Spring 

'Leaves  her  robe  on  the  trees,' 

does  she  not  remember  your  tree,  and  wish  you  were 
there  to  see  it  in  its  glory  ? 

Nothing  is  '  far,'  and  nothing  '  long,'  to  her;  she 
girdles  the  globe  with  a  cincture  of  love  ;  she  encir 
cles  her  child,  if  he  be  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

Think  you,  as  she  sits  in  that  well -remembered  cor 
ner  to-night,  she  dreams  her  trembling  arm  is  less 
powerful  to  protect  him  now,  stalwart  man  though 
he  is,  than  when  it  clasped  him,  in  infancy,  to  her 
bosom  ? 

Does  the  battle  of  life  drive  the  wanderer  to  the 
old  homestead,  at  last  1  Her  hand  is  upon  his  shoul 
der  ;  her  dim  and  fading  eyes  are  kindled  with  some 
thing  of  '  the  light  of  other  days,'  as  she  gazes  upon 


276  JANUARY   AND    JUNE. 

his  brow  :  'Be  of  stout  heart,  my  SON  !  No  harm 
can  reach  thee  here  !' 

Surely,  there  is  but  one  Heaven  —  one  Mother  —  and 
one  God. 

But  sometimes  that  arm-chair  is  set  back  against 
the  wall,  the  corner  is  vacant,  or  another's,  and  they 
seek  the  dear,  old  occupant  in  the  graveyard.  God 
grant  you  never  have  !  Pray  God,  I  never  may  ! 

There  are  some  there,  though,  whom  we  loved  — 
there  must  be,  to  make  it  easy  dying  ;  some,  perhaps, 
who  were  cradled  on  that  mother's  bosom  ;  some, 
perhaps,  who  had  grown  fast  to  our  own. 

The  old  graveyard  in  L  -  !  How  the  cloudy 
years  clear  away  from  before  that  little  acre  in  God's 
fallow  field,  and  the  memories  return  - 


in 

There's  a  little  graveyard,  brother,  where  the  Lombardy 

poplars  wave, 

Forever  and  forever,  and  above  a  little  grave; 
Though  the  greensward  has  subsided,  and  there's  no  one 

there  to  tell  — 
Twas  when  we  were  boys  together  —  yet  I  should  know  it 

well. 

When  we  were  boys  together!     Ohl  how  far  we  must  have 

run, 
The  matin  and  the  vesper  blend  so  mournfully  in  one. 


BROKEN    MEMORIES.  277 

I'm  a-weary  with  the  watching,  through  this  being's  cloudy 

bars, 
For  the  dear,  dim  days,  my  brother,  that  are  rounded  into 

stars. 

The  last  time  I  was  there,  brother,  a  robin  had  wove  a  nest, 
In  the  little  fence  they  builded  round  the  sleeper  in  his  rest ; 
Bat  the  nest  was  silent,  brother ;  not  a  bird  was  there  to  sing 
Where  song  itself  once  nestled,  ere  song  had  taken  wing. 

I  am  sure  you  must  remember,  the  little  grave  I  mean — 
There  are  only  you  and  I  now,  but  there  once  was  one 

between : 
'Twas  before  that  grave  was  hollowed,  and  before  that  song 

had  fled, 
And  before  they  told  me,  weeping,  that  the  beautiful  was 

dead. 

Oh !  they  tell  us  of  the  future — of  purer  lives  and  perfect 

men, 
But  I  shouldn't  wonder,  brother,  we  were  nearer  Heaven 

then ; 
If  by  life's  wild  tempest  driven,  that  sweet  port  we've  drifted 

past; 
Oh !  send  a  pilot,  gentle  Heaven,  to  bring  us  back  at  last. 

From  home  to  home,  my  brother !     Ohl  how  breathless  were 

the  bliss, 

To  be  the  boys  together  there — in  that  world  as  in  this ! 
Methought  I  heard  a  hail,  brother,  and  it  syllabled  my  name ; 
Oh  1  ship  your  oar  a  moment,  let  us  listen  whence  it  came. 

There  away,  like  moonlight  breaking,  something  dawning 

through  the  dark  1 
Now  the  shadow  shape  is  taking — sail  of   silver!    silver 

barque ! 


278  JANUARY   AND   JUNE. 

In  the  bow  there   stands  an  angel,  and   a  cherub  by  her 

side; 
And  that  cherub,  trust  me,  brother,  is   '  the  little  boy  that 

died.' 

Angel?     No!     But  wife  and  woman;  she  that  looked  me 

into  love, 
While  below  she  sweetly  waited  for  her  wings,  and  went 

above. 
Had  I  seen  through  her  disguising,  could  I  so  have  loved 

and  mourned  ? 
Ohl  that  loving,   and  that  weeping,  would  have  been  to 

worship  turned. 

As  a  maiden  at  her  window,  watches  Love's  pale  planet  rise, 
So  my  MARY'S  soul  was  watching,  ever  watching  at  her  eyes. 
As  that  maiden,  footsteps  hearing,  from  the  darkened  window 

flying, 
So  some  angel,   earth-ward   nearing,  lured  my  Mary  into 

dying ! 

Oh  I  in  what  far  seas  we  wander — for  we  must  be  off  that 

shore, 

Where  none  are  ever  stranded,  yet  none  are  heard  of  more. 
I  am  sure  there  is  no  record  left,  of  one  that  ever  sailed, 
Who  was  ever  in  such  music,  by  such  a  vision  hailed. 

But  that  lonely  graveyard,  brother — in  its  bosom  let  me  rest, 
With  the  turf  as  green  above  me,  as  my  childhood's  feet 

impressed ; 
Where  our  mother's  songs  still  linger,  linger  in  the  evening 

air, 
Sweetly  dreamless  could  I  slumber — slumber  there,  if  any 

where  1 


THE    DYING    MUSICIAN.  279 

When  this  being's  wild  campaigning,  and  the  dreary  march 

is  done, 
Will  you  bear  me  then,  my  brother,  where  that  march  at 

morn  begun  ? 
But  remember — not  a  mourner !     Let  no  tears  be  shed  for 

him, 
For  whose  worthless  sake  when  living,  loving  eyes  could  e'er 

grow  dim. 

Will  you  rear  a  tablet,  brother,  with  this  simple  emblem 

graced, 

Just  a  female  figure  bending — on  her  lips  a  finger  placed? 
Tims  they'll  read  it  who  may  linger:  'Silent  he,  and  silent 

we; 
What  he  was — but  that's  all  over ! — what  he  is,  is  naught  to 

thee !' 


THERE  is  a  story  told,  some  where,  of  a  celebrated 
musician,  who  lay  upon  his  dying  bed.  A  youth 
entered  an  adjoining  apartment,  sat  down  to  a  piano, 
and  began  to  play  a  tune.  For  some  reason,  he 
stopped  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  a  strain,  and  left  the 
room.  The  air  was  a  favorite  one  with  the  dying  son 
of  song,  and  the  notes  untouched,  so  haunted  him  as 
he  lay  there,  that  he  rose  from  his  couch,  seated  him 
self  at  the  instrument,  took  up  the  tune,  where  the 
youth  had  left  it,  played  it  out,  returned  to  his  pillow, 
and  in  a  moment,  was  dead.  . 


280  JANUARY    AND   JUNE. 

I  know  not  that  it  is  true,  but  it  is  touching  and 
suggestive  enough  to  he  so. 

The  world  is  full  of  life  ;  each  life  is  a  tune ;  so 
the  world  is  a  great  Orchestra  ;  and  of  them  all,  how 
few  tunes  are  played  through  ! — how  many  ended  as 
they  were  not  begun  ! 

Marches  are  sounded  every  day :  strong,  brave 
marches,  that  end  too  soon  in  '  a  dying  fall.' 

Whirling  waltzes,  set  off  to  the  time  of  the  young 
est,  merriest  hearts,  subside  into  dirges,  sad  and  slow. 

Paeans  turn  to  plaints,  and  all,  at  last,  are  hushed 
in  the  measured  beat  of  the  '  muffled  drums '  of  life. 

And  of  all  these  strains  of  hope  and  harmony,  how 
many  are  unended — no  dying  musician  to  take  them 
up,  when  those  who  struck  them  first,  are  dumb  or 
dead. 

But  isn't  it  a  pleasant  thought  that  perJiaps  some 
body  may  take  up  the  tune,  when  we  are  dead — not 
a  note  lost,  not  a  jar,  not  a  discord,  but  all  a  swan- 
like  harmony  ?  Perhaps  !  perhaps  !  There  is  some 
thing  hollow,  like  a  knell,  in  that  word.  Tho  veil 
that  hides  the  future  is  woven  of  '  perhaps  ;'  in  it  the 
greatest  ills  have  their  solace,  the  brightest  joys  their 
cloud. 


THE    DY.XG    MUSICIAN.  281 

The  broken  strains  of  thought  in  this  little  look, 
are,  as  you  will  not  grieve  to  know,  now  ended,  and 
no  body  in  the  next  room  to  play  on. 

May  neither  your  life  nor  mine,  be  composed  of 
random  '  scores,'  but  be  a  beautiful  Anthem,  harmony 
in  all  its  parts,  melody  in  all  its  tones ;  not  a  strain 
wanting,  not  a  note  out  of  the  tune  ;  till  '  the  daugh 
ters  of  music  are  brought  low,'  and  the  life-anthem  is 


ISntretr, 


NOW    READY, 


Cjfe  lenelrolent 


A    STORY   OF    LIFE    IN    NEW-YORK, 

BY   TUB  AUTHOR  OP  "  TUB  ATTORNEY." 

With  Illustrations.     One  Volume.     Price,  One  Dollar. 


Of  this  Work  one  of  our  best  critics  say s :  "It  has  traces  of  the  quiet  humor  of  Wash 
ington  Irving,  and  of  the  strong,  bold  character-drawing  of  Dickens.  The  scenes  are 
felicitously  conceived,  and  awaken  an  intense  interest  in  the  reader." 


IN    PREPARATION, 

THE  CODNTRY  DOCTOR; 

Being   Sketcbes  from   the  Practice  of  a   Country   Physician. 

A  part  of  these  Sketches  have  appeared  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  and  have 
been  among  the  most  interesting  and  amusing  contributions  to  that  work.  The  book 
will  be  illustrated,  and  form  a  handsome  volume,  large  12mo. 

ALSO, 

PBBMiil!  Ill  IIS  PiOFilS 

OE, 

Sketches  of  Life  and  Character  in  the  New  Settlements  of  the  West. 
BY  SIMON  OAKLEAF. 

This  hook  is  from  the  pen  of  an  old  and  favorite  contributor  to  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine.  He  has  long  been  familiar  with  the  people  whose  habits  and  peculiarities 
the  very  graphically  describes,  and  his  book  should  have  a  wide  circulation. 

It  will  be  Illustrated  with  original  designs  from  our  best  artists,  and  issued  in  the  best 

SAMUEL     HUESTON, 

139  IVa»»uu  Street, 

NEW-YORK. 


THE 


OR,  THE 


of  |o(jn 


ill  liUIlj  lUBBTBiTfiBj  Hill 


THE  ATTORNEY  was  first  published  in  the  KNICKERBOCKER  MAGAZINE  in  1841,  and 
in  1842  was  issued  in  book  form  in  two  volumes.  The  work  has  been  out  of  print  suv- 
eral  years. 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  New- York  City,  and  the  descriptions  of  places  aid 
characters  are  so  graphic  and  powerful,  that  the  subscriber  is  induced  to  re-publish  the 
work.  The  author  has  re  written  the  Introduction,  and  rarefully  revised  and  corrected 
the  whole  work 


SOME   O  E  1 2XT  X  O  3ff  S    OF   THE    E3R.E88. 

IT  is  elegantly  written— some  of  the  cha  acters  are  drawn  with  a  power  we  have 
rarely  seen  equalled.  Grime  is  pictured  wiin  a  demon  aspect.  Suffering  virtue  is  ex 
hibited  patient,  submissive,  and  in  death  peaceful.  Remorse  absolutely  shocks  us  by  the 
horrid  dance  it  leads  its  victims. — Northern  Budget,  Troy,  N.  Y. 

The  story  of  the  plans  and  machinations  by  which  the  dishonest  lawyer  sought  to 
defraud  his  client  of  his  patrimony,  form  a  train  of  incidents  replete  with  interest,  an<* 
furnish  a  masterly  delineation  of  character. — Daily  Advertiser,  Detroit,  Mich. 

To  be  original  without  absurdity,  and  spirited  without  exa?geration,  are  not  easy 
achievements — yet  the  author  of  "  The  Attorney  "  has  succeeded  in  doing  both,  and  it 
will  be  read  with  delight  by  all  who  can  find  pleasure  in  lively  and  skilful  delineations 
of  character  drawn  from  all  conditions  of  town  life,  and  written  out  in  good  honest  Eng 
lish,  such  as  few  men  indite  in  these  days  of  rapidity  and  vapidity  of  composition. — 
John  G.  Saxe,  Editor  of  Sentinel,  Burlington,  Vt. 

The  story  is  fraught  with  finely-drawn  characters,  and  most  charming  pictures  of 
life  may  be  found  on  almost  every  page. — Commercial  Register,  Sandusky  City,  Ohio. 

It  is  a  book  in  which  the  mysteries  and  miseries  of  the  legal  profession  are  portrayei' 
in  a  graphic  style.  It  is  full  of  fact  and  fancy,  gayety  and  gravity. — Morning  Post,  Pitts 
burg,  Pa. 

There  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  as  to  the  merit  of  the  work  ;  it  is  thoroughly  Arner 
ican,  and  great  ability  is  perceptible  on  every  page. — Evening  Chronicle,  Pittaburg,  Pa 

Such  a  book  will  be  a  great  relief  to  those  especially  whose  daily  duty  it  is  to  dive 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  common  law,  and  to  unravel  the  intricacies  of  Chitty's  plead 
iugs. — Republican,  Savannah,  Ga. 

It  is  full  of  humor,  and  as  a  composition  infinitely  above  seven-eighths  of  the  mo'l 
ern  works  of  fiction. — Dollar  Newspaper.  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

It  is  from  the  pen  of  a  relative  of  the  first  of  living  American  writers,  and  not  un 
wo-;hy  the  pen  of  the  author  of  the  Sketch  Book.  The  author  is  a  man  of  keen  percep 
tion,  and  throushout  the  work,  never  allows  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  flag.  Such  a 
book-maker  will  not  be  allowed  to  remain  idle. —  Golden  Rule,  N.  Y. 

Upon  a  re-perusal,  after  years  of  forgetfulness,  we  find  the  language  as  quaint,  rich, 
racy  and  amusing,  as  is  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  the  elder  Irving.  Besides,  the  plot 
increases  in  interest  as  the  story  progresses,  until,  like  the  best  works  of  fiction,  it  be 
comes  absorbing. — Daily  Times,  Louisville,  Ky. 

It  is  an  ingeniously-plotted,  handsomely -expressed,  and  well-sustained  tale,  con 
taining  some  exquisite  passages,  and  imbued  throughout  with  real  feeling     We  can 
say  we  like  the  book. — Morning  Express,  Bv'ffaio,  N.  Y. 


THE 


.nidurbdier 

LOUIS  OAYLORD  CLAKK. 


TUB  FORTY-THIRD  VOLUME  oT  this  oldest  Magazine  in  America  will  commence  on 
First  of  January,  1854.  The  work  has  been  so  long  before  the  public,  that  it  is  not 
deemed  necessary  to  enlarge  upon  its  widely-acknowledged  claims  to  general  favor.  The 
annexed  list  of  contributors  to  the  Magazine,  and  a  few  notices  of  the  press,  (out  of 
many  thousands,)  will  sufficiently  attest  its  character  and  its  popularity : 

REV.   DR.   SPRING, 

J.   N.  BELLOWS, 

PROFESSOR    FELTOX, 

STACY  Q.  POTTS, 

MR.  F.   PARKMAN,   (Boston.) 

J.  Q.  WHITTIER, 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  ES<) 

H.   W.  ROCKWELL, 

WILLIAM  PITT   PALMER, 

CHARLES  M.  LEUPP,  ESQ., 

PROFESSOR  BECK, 

HON.  CHARLES  MINER, 

REV.   FREDERICK  W.  SIIKLTOB, 

EDWARD  S.  GOULD, 

JOSEPH  Q.  CANNING, 

CHARLES  GOULD, 

MRS.  K.  F.  ELLET, 

J.  H.  GOURI.IE,   ESQ., 

HORACE  GRKELEY, 

REV.  DR.  PISE, 

RUSSELL  SMITH,  ESQ. 

MR.   THOMAS  W.  STORROTT 

GEORGE  LUNT, 

REV.  J.  GILBORNE  LYONS, 

H.  T.  TUCKERMAN, 

MRS.  M.  E.   HEWITT, 

PROF.  JAMES  J.  MAPES, 

JAMES  LINEN, 

REV.  R.  H.  BACON, 

J.  H.  SBELDON,  JR., 

J.  O.  SAXE,   ESQ., 

JOHN  HENRY  HOPKINS,   (Vt.) 


WASHINGTON  IRVISQ, 
WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT, 
FITZ  GREENE  HALLECK, 
PROF.  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW, 
J.  K.  PAULDING, 
MISS  C.  M.  SEDGWICK, 
HON.  LEWIS  CASS, 
SIR  E.  L.  BULWER, 
REV.  ORVILLB  DEWEY, 
R.  H.  STODDARD, 
J.  H.  PRESCOTT,  ESQ., 
HON.  R.  M.  CHARLTON, 
JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL, 
HON.  W.  H.  SEWARD, 
JARED  SPARKS, 
'HARRY  FRANCO,' 
NATU.  HAWTHORNE, 
MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY, 
RKV.  DR.  BETHDNE, 
MRS.  C.  M.  KIRKLAND, 
FREDERICK:  s.  COZZENS, 

MISS  LESLIE, 
If     D.  GALLAGHER, 
HON.  JUDGE  CONRAD, 
DR.   O.   W.  HOLMES, 
THOMAS   W.  PARSONS, 
PROF.   HITCHCOCK, 
MRS.   E.  C.   EMBURY, 
WILLIAM  B.  GLAZIER, 
HON.  D.  D.   BARNARD, 

r.  P.  BROWN,  (Constantinople.) 

CICY  MCMAStEKS, 


F.  W.  EDMONDS,  ESQ.. 

REV.  MR.  GANNETT,   (MaSS.) 

MRS.  OILMAN,   (S.  C.) 

E.  T.  T.  MARTIN, 

H.   W.  ELLSWORTH, 

H.  J.   RAYMOND,  ESQ., 

H.  R.  SCHOOLCRAFT, 

CHARLES  G.  LELAND,  ESQ., 

REV.  J.  PIERPONT, 

HON.   G.  C.   VERPLANCK, 

ALBERT  MATHEW3,  ESQ., 

COL.  T.  s.  M'KENNY, 

JOHN  T.  IRVING, 
ALBERT   PIKE,  ESQ., 
'IK  MARVEL,' 
CHARLES  SPRAGCE, 
RICHARD  B.   KIMBALL,  ESQ., 
PARK  BENJAMIN, 
THEODORE  S.  FAY, 
MRS.  FANNY  K.  BUTLER, 
DONALD  MACLEOD, 
JOSKPH  B.   VARNUM,  ESQ., 
CHARLES  ASTOR  BRISTED, 
PRESIDENT  DUER, 
JOSEPH  BARBER, 
MISS  H.  F.  GOUI.D, 
E.  W.  B.  CANNING, 
PROF.  CHARLES  ANTHOJJ, 
ALFRED  B.  STREET, 
JOHN  WATERS, 
CONSUL  G.   W.  GREENE, 


JAMES  BROOKS, 

THE  foregoing  list  included  also  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  Rev.  TIMOTHY  FLINT,  Miss  LAN- 
DON,  JUSTICE  MELLEN,  TYRONE  POWER,  ROBERT  C.  SANDS,  Capt.  F.  MARRY  AT,  WILLIS 
GAYI.ORD  CLARK,  JOHN  SANDERSON,  the  'American  in  Paris,'  NICHOLAS  BIDDLE,  Miss 
MARY  ANNE  BROWNK,  (Mrs.  GRAY,)  England,  Rev.  Dr.  BRANTLEY,  South-Carolina, 
WILLIAM  L.  STONE,  J.  H.  HILLHOUSE,  J.  FENIMORE  COOPER,  llov.  WM.  WARE,  J. 
H.  STEPHENS,  Hon.  R.  H.  WILDE,  JOSEPH  C.  NEAL,  PHILIP  HONE,  ESQ.,  Rev.  HENRY 
BASCOM,  Rev.  WALTER  COLTON,  HENRY  BREVOOKT,  ESQ.,  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH, 
A.  BRIOHAM,  Dr.  JOHN  NEILSON,  JR.,  J.  K.  KENNARD,  JR.,  Mass.,  Hon.  JUDGE  HALL, 
Illinois,)  Rev.  W.  B.  O.  PEABODY,  with  other  distinguished  writers  who  have  'paid  the 
lebt  of  nature.'  The  following  notices  of  the  KNICKERBOCKER  are  from  the  American 
ind  English  press,  and  from  American  and  British  writers  of  distinction : 

'THE   KNICKERBOCKER  holds   its   own   re- 


flarkably  well.  Nobody  can  complain  that 
»e  does  not  have  his  money's  worth  in  so 
rreat  a  variety  of  pleasant  reading  at  three 
dollars  a  year.'— BOSTON  DAILY  ADVERTISER. 

'  WB  never  read  the  KNICKERBOCKER  but  we 
feel  as  if  we  were  reading  a  tetter  from  a  >     '  Tun  KNICKERBOCKER  Is  quite  the  ablest 


cherished  friend.  Here's  a  health  to  thee 
'Old  KNICK.  !'  If  the  fates  should  ever  send 
thee  to  'Old  Virginia,'  there  is  one  hand  that 
will  give  thee  a  cordial  grasp,  and  one  heart 
a  friendly  greeting.'  —  PETERSBURGH  (Va.) 
DAILY  EXPRESS. 


repertory  of  original  American  literature  of 
all  periodicals  of  its  class.  Among  its  con 
tributors,  from  the  commencement  of  its 
career,  have  been  the  ablest  and  most 
popular  authors  that  the  country  has  pro 
duced.  But  that  feature  which  has  always 
most  attracted  us,  in  this  entertaining  Ma 
gazine,  is  the  Editor's  Table.  Though  occu 
pying  the  last  pages  of  the  work,  we  always 
open  to  it  first ;  and  wherever  in  its  genial, 
cheerful,  single-minded  'Gossip,'  the  eye 
falls,  thence  it  is  led  forward  by  irresistible 
attraction  from  topic  to  topic,  till  the  end.'— 
N.  Y.  JOURNAL  OP  COMMERCE. 

'No  periodical  published  in  America  will 
compare,  for  unflagging,  sustained  interest 
and  variety,  high  literary  character  and 
general  popularity,  with  this  universal  favor 
ite.  It  is  at  once  the  ablest  and  best  maga 
zine  of  its  class  this  side  of  the  Atlantic ;  and 
on  some  accounts  we  know  of  none  across 
the  'big  pond'  that  we  prefer  before  it.'  .  .  . 
'There  is  not,  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
so  elegantly,  so  delicately  printed  a  peri 
odical  as  is  our  '  Old  KNICK.'  It  is  refreshing 
to  wander  over  its  faultless  pages.'— ALBANY 
DAILY  REGISTER. 

'  THIS  glorious  argosy  from  prose  and  verse- 
land,  full  freighted,  luscious  and  spicy,  is  just 
anchored  at  our  desk.  Amid  the  stubble  of 
politics  and  dry-as-dust  news,  it  comes  like 
clover-scented  zephyrs,  fragrant,  balmy,  but 
not,  like  most  delicious  things,  surfeiting. 
The  KNICKERBOCKER  is  tJie  American  Maga 
zine :  'Long  may  it  wave !"— EVENING  Aim- 

BOR. 

'  No  number  of  the  KNICKERBOCKER  has  ever 
been  issued  under  CLARK'S  supervision  that 
did  not  bear  indubitable  evidence  of  editorial 
care,  and  anxious  thought  and  well-directed 
labor  enstamped  upon  its  pages.  We  have 
known  no  monthly,  of  this  country  or  Europe, 
BO  thoroughly  edited,  in  the  strictest  sense 


'The  KNICKERBOCKER  comes  to  us  in  ad 
vance,  with  its  budget  of  good  things  and 
things  of  beauty.  Surely,  the  EDITOR  is  in 
exhaustible.  His  'Table'  is  supplied  from 
the  Cornucopia  itself.'— N.  Y.  DAILY  TIMES. 

'NOTHING  is  more  remarkable  than  the 
unfailing  promptitude  of  this  old  Monthly, 
except  perhaps  its  constant  and  constantly 
Increasing  excellence.'— N.  Y.  DAILY  COURIER 
AND  ENQUIRER. 

"I  PERUSE  the  numbers  of  the  KNICKER 


BOCKER  with  nigh  gratification.  They  seem 
to  me  of  an  order  of  merit  quite  above  the 
average  of  the  periodicals  of  its  class.  Eng 
lish  or  American.'— HON.  EDWARD  EVKKETT. 

'  I  HAVE  always  felt  a  deep  interest  in  the 
KNICKERBOCKER,  and  taken  pleasure  in  bring 
ing  it  to  the  notice  of  my  friends.  The 
manner  in  which  it  is  conducted,  and  the 
great  merit  of  many  of  its  contributors,  place 
it  in  the  highest  rank  of  periodicals.' — Hon. 
J.  K.  PAULDING. 

'THE  KNICKERBOCKER  stands  high  in  this 
quarter.  It  is  infinitely  superior  to  most  of 
the  English  magazines,  and  well  deserves  its 
large  list  of  subscribers.' — PROFESSOR  LONG 
FELLOW. 

'  TUB  KNICKERBOCKER  is  the  best  American 
periodical  I  have  yet  seen.'  ..."  I  take 
pleasure  in  enclosing  you  some  lines,  which 
were  penned  expressly  for  your  work.' — SIR 
EDWARD  BCLWER  LYTTOX. 

'THE  KNICKERBOCKER  is  an  honor,  and  a 
high  one,  to  the  literature  of  our  country. 
I  always  feel  that  I  am  conferring  a  favor  on 
the  persons  to  whom  I  recommend  it,  rather 
than  upon  the  proprietors.'  —  HON.  R.  M. 
CHARLTON,  Georgia. 

'  I  HAVE  read  a  good  many  of  the  articles  in 
the  KNICKERBOCKER,  and  find  them  to  possess 
great  merit.  Some  of  its  papers,  it  is  true, 
were  too  light  for  my  serious  turn  of  mind  ; 
yet  the  whole  appears  well  calculated  to 
gratify  the  tastes  of  the  general  mass  of 
readers.' — REV.  DR.  DICK,  Scotland. 

'  THIS  very  clever  Magazine  is  the  pleasant- 
est  periodical  in  the  United  States.  Its  arti 
cles  are  numerous  and  short,  various  and 
interesting,  and  well  worthy  of  imitation  by 
our  Magazines  on  this  aide  of  the  Atlantic.' — 
LONDON  EXAMINER. 

'THE  KNICKERBOCKER  is  one  of  the  most 
valuable  Magazines  of  the  day,  and  out-strips 
all  competitio_n  in  the  higher  walks  of  litera 
ture.  It  is  rich,  racy,  and  varied ;  exhibit 
ing  industry,  taste,  and  talent  at  the  helm, 
equal  to  all  it  undertakes.' — ALBANY  ARGI'S. 

'JUDGING  from  the  numbers  before  us,  we 
are  inclined  to  consider  this  the  best  of  all 
American  literary  periodicals.  Its  contents 
are  highly  interesting,  instructive,and  amus 
ing.'— LONDON  MORNING  CHRONICLE. 

'  THE  taste  and  talent  which  the  KNICKER 
BOCKER  displays  are  highly  creditable  to 
American  writers,  and  very  agreeable  for 
English  readers.'  — LONDON  LITERARY  GA 
ZETTE. 


THREE  dollars  a  year,  INVARIABLY  in  advance.  Two  copies  for  Five  Dollars:  Five 
copies,  and  upward,  Two  Dollars  each.  Postmasters  will  act  as  Agents.  Specimen  num 
bers  sent  gratis,  on  application,  post-paid.  To  CLUBS,  the  KNICKERBOCKER,  HARPER'S, 
GRAHAM'S,  or  GODEY'S  Magazines  will  be  sent  one  year  for  FIVE  DOLLARS.  The  KNICK 
ERBOCKER  and  'HOME  JOURNAL,'  or  any  other  New- York,  Philadelphia,  or  Boston  two- 
dollars'-weekly,  for  FOUR  DOLLARS  a  year.  POSTAGE  on  the  KNICKERBOCKER,  is  two 
cents  per  number :  paid,  optionally,  by  the  subscriber  or  the  publisher.  All  Literary 
Communications,  or  inquiries  in  regard  to  them,  to  be  addressed  to  the  EDITOR  :  all  Busi 
ness  Communications  to  the  PUBLISHER, 

SAMUEL  HUESTOX, 

1 39  NASSAU  STREET,  JTETV-YORK. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  674  304     1 


